


17 Days In New York (Or, The Adventures of Stan & Benoît At The 2015 US Open)

by Jaffacakeaddict



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Angst and Humor, Established Relationship, M/M, pastry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-04-29 11:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 33,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5126198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaffacakeaddict/pseuds/Jaffacakeaddict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A real-time fic written during the 2015 US Open. The title pretty much says it all!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If You Can Make It There

**Author's Note:**

  * For [polkadot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkadot/gifts).



> I wrote the first draft of this fic in real time during the tournament, starting on Thursday 27th August when I had the idea and finishing on Monday 14th September, the day after the men's final, plus 6 weeks of editing and re-writes. It was originally just a short inner monologue concentrating on Benoît's thoughts the night before the draw announcement, but then it seemed a shame not to have the boys actually meet, and after that, real-life events rather took over! Some of the news stories (players pulling out, match results, etc), literally occurred while I was writing a scene and were incorporated immediately. All stats are from the US Open and ATP websites, or my own notes during matches. This is my first time writing anything remotely like this, so I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> For polkadot, who is entirely responsible (along with the boys themselves, of course) for my Stan/ Benoît love. This is basically fanfic for her fanfic, and treats her series La Vache et Le Dauphin as canon. You don't have to read that first, but you *should* definitely read it, because it's wonderful.
> 
> Imagine that Stan & Benoît are speaking in French at all times, unless otherwise stated, but there's a tiny Babelfish in your ear translating everything into English.
> 
> For my non-tennis friends: Benoît is pronounced Ben-wah, Paire is pronounced like the fruit, Wawrinka is pronounced Vav-rink-a. Lionel is Benoît's coach, and Magnus is Stan's. I tried to make this fic fun for the non-tennis fan too; I hope I’ve succeeded.

**Day 1: Thursday 27th August 2015. Winston-Salem, North Carolina.**

 

Benoît can't sleep. It's a hot night, humid and sticky, one of those nights where you can't bear to have any parts of your body touching any other parts of your body, because the skin where they touch instantly becomes hotter than the surface of the sun. He's thrown off all the bedding except for a single sheet, which he's using as a protective barrier between his thighs, but it's not really helping. His hotel room has air con, but the noise was keeping him awake, so he got up an hour ago and turned it off. Now the heat's keeping him awake instead.

Usually, he doesn't mind a bit of heat. Benoît grew up in the south of France, not far from the coast; he's spent much of his life when he's not on tennis courts, on beaches. He loves the sun, unlike his Swiss boyfriend, who would be happy for it to remain a temperate 18 degrees all summer. But that's different; it's supposed to be hot on the beach, it's not supposed to be hot at night when you're trying to sleep and you've got an early flight in the morning. Benoît is not a good flyer. It's only a short flight, less than two hours, but airplane seats seem specially designed to torture anyone taller than the average. Also, Stan has a sponsor event to attend this afternoon, and any flight delay might mean they don't see each other until much later tonight. Benoît doesn't think he can wait that long.

Thinking about Stan doesn't help either. For once, they're in the same time zone; Stan's already in New York preparing for the US Open next week. Benoît has largely been keeping up with his activities via Twitter, thanks to numerous photos of Stan on the practice court posted by fans. Not that he's being a stalkery boyfriend or anything, just that Stan's been going through kind of a rough time lately, and Benoît's worried about him. If something happens, he wants to know about it straight away so he can call Stan, not hear about it via texts from friends. Nothing is faster than Twitter,  _nothing._

In retrospect, it  _may_  have been a terrible idea to search for Stan's name ten minutes before going to bed. All those photos of Stan in a sweat-soaked shirt that clings to his body (and Stan lifting his shirt to tie his shorts and unintentionally flashing his abs, and Stan bending over to rummage in his kit bag in white shorts that show the outlines of his underwear) are not exactly helping Benoît get to sleep.

He fervently wishes he was in New York with Stan right now, not sleeping for a different, much better reason. Benoît has missed him intensely this week. His decision to play in this tournament was made ages ago, before everything blew up, and it has been an utter waste of time.

It's been barely a month since he won his first ATP tournament in Sweden, having finally clawed his way back into the top 50 after more than a year racked by injury. For a few days afterwards, maybe a week, he'd been on top of the world. Finally, everything was going the way he wanted; his career, his health, his love life, everything. Winning felt incredible. Holding a big, shiny trophy felt amazing. He wanted more of that, thank you very much. The following week, he made it to the quarter-finals in Hamburg. And since then, first match loss after first match loss.

Last week, in Cincinnati, he failed to even get through the qualifiers, then was given a second chance as a lucky loser - only to get drawn against Novak Djokovic, the fucking World no 1. So much for the lucky loser! Then Stan pointed out that, since he was likely to lose anyway, he might as well enjoy himself, and make the most of the opportunity to perform on the big stage, with the eyes of the world watching.

Well, that Benoît could do, it turned out. Lose, but with style. He took Novak to a tie-break in the first set, hit a couple of hotshots that briefly had him trending on Twitter, and garnered him nearly 500 new followers. He was on such a high afterwards, it almost felt like winning. He was all buoyed up for New York, except he'd signed up for this little tournament in North Carolina first... and promptly got dumped out in the first round. He didn't just lose, either, he was comprehensively spanked, by a qualifier ranked in the 70s. And then, as though that wasn’t bad enough, he promptly lost his first round match in the doubles too. All his taking-Novak-to-a-tiebreak confidence shattered in 48 hours.

But that's tennis. You always lose, unless you win, actually win the tournament and the trophy. Even if you make it all the way to the final, even if you're the runner-up, you've still lost. You just have to keep trying to lose further along the line than last time, have more wins than losses in the end.  _Fail better_ , like it says on Stan's tattoo.

Tomorrow, they announce the draws for the US Open. With his luck, he'll get drawn against that little shit Kyrgios, smash a racket over his head, and get a fine and a six-month ban. Kyrgios doesn't "know" about him and Stan, of course, because they're only out to a select group of trusted friends, but he does know they're best friends, as it's common knowledge on the tour. Everyone would be watching and waiting for one of them to snap. Kyrgios (or Fuckface, as Benoît has christened him) would certainly know to expect a frosty welcome. _Ha_. That's an understatement. Stan's had a hard time of it lately, thanks to the young Australian's big mouth, and there's been nothing Benoît can do to make things better. He can distract Stan for a while (he's good at distraction - make that  _excellent)_ but afterwards, Stan still has to deal with the fallout.

As far as the press and public are concerned, the facts are these: a month ago, in Montreal, during Stan's second-round match, the on-court cameras and microphones picked up a muttered comment by Kyrgios to the effect that “Kokkinakis banged your girlfriend”. The other two people in question being 19 year old Thanasi Kokkinakis, his fellow Australian, and Donna Vekic, also 19, friends and former mixed doubles partners.

Stan didn't hear what Kyrgios said, but by the time he got back to the locker room, it was all over Twitter, and not long after, the sports blogs and websites too. By the following morning it was actual, proper front page news, and it seemed like everyone in the entire world had an opinion about it.

There were people who thought Kyrgios was a disgrace to the gentlemanly sport of tennis (it was not the first time his mouth had got him into trouble) and should be fined or banned for life.

There were people who thought _Stan_ was a disgrace for supposedly dating a teenager, especially as he had a young daughter himself. One confused idiot even tweeted Stan that he was a “paedophile!!!” (complete with angry emoji), which upset him a lot.

There were people who thought the whole thing was indicative of the rampant misogyny in sport; poor innocent Donna, being treated as the property of two men and slut-shamed in public.

There were people who thought Kyrgios was some sort of folk hero, bringing the “McEnroe spirit” back to the otherwise “boring” sport of tennis.

There were people who misunderstood completely and thought that Kyrgios was telling Stan his girlfriend was cheating on him, live on TV.

There were people who thought that everyone else was over-reacting, because that sort of thing – insulting, or “sledging” your opponent to put them off their game – happened on sports fields everywhere, and therefore Stan should just put up and shut up.

There were people who indulged Kyrgios because of his age, conveniently forgetting all those players, like Rafa and Roger and – well, pretty much _everyone else_ on the circuit, who also went pro in their late teens, but didn’t feel the need to act like total arseholes the whole time.

There were people who thought Stan had no right to be upset, because he’d left his wife and kid for a hot blonde teenager (this piece of nonsense was considered a “fact” by pretty much everyone), so somehow deserved everything he got.

Basically, there were a lot of people who enjoyed judging others for something they knew absolutely nothing about, and quite a few of them thought Stan needed to hear that opinion directly.

Stan can't defend himself with the truth, because the truth would only make things worse. He just wants the press to leave him alone and stop asking him about it. Not just the press, either; the public are even worse. They've both tried to keep off social media for the last few weeks; ever since the time Benoît woke in the middle of the night to find Stan hunched over his phone, and Stan showed him some of the hundreds of abusive tweets he'd received in the wake of the incident. Plenty of supportive ones in there too, of course, but the abusive ones were clearly really getting to him.

"This is what it would be like if I - we - came out, isn't it?” Stan had said, in a choked voice, “Only a thousand times worse."

Benoît didn't have an answer for him then, and he hasn't been able to find one since. He has an awful, sinking feeling that this might mean they have to keep their relationship a secret for _ever._ He's five years younger than Stan, he's grown up in more enlightened times (in gay rights terms, five years are like dog years; it might as well be twenty). If Stan wanted to do it, Benoît would have no compunction whatsoever about announcing his sexuality to the world. Who the hell cares if the number 41-ranked tennis player in the world is gay, anyway? Well... probably a lot less people than the number who'd care if the no 5 player is. That would certainly be big news, especially now. And Stan is the last person who can deal with all this shit. If it had happened to Benoît - well, it probably wouldn't be news at all, and he probably wouldn't be getting a hundred abusive tweets an hour and endless newspaper columns written about his private life. This last month has been quite an education into the highs and terrible, terrible lows of fame. It's one thing being moderately famous in France, it turns out, quite another to have what feels like the whole world telling you exactly what they think of you. Even if it's not true.

The real truth, of course, is far more complicated. Stan's marriage was all but over five years ago, but they agreed to stay together, in name at least, for their daughter's sake. The divorce was his ex-wife's request: she wants to move on and start dating other people, now that Alexia is older, and Stan's glad about that, not least because it alleviates some of the guilt he feels for marrying her in the first place. Stan was twenty when they met, and Ilham was ten years older. Some people know their sexuality from an early age - Benoît can't remember a time he didn't fancy boys, it's never been an issue for him - but some take a lot longer to realise it, and longer still to accept who they are. Unfortunately, by the time Stan came to that realisation, he was recently married and the father of a young baby. There was no way out without hurting everyone he loved. Ilham would be devastated and angry, justifiably so. She'd want to know if Stan knew he was gay when they got married, if he'd known all along, and he didn't know the answer to that himself. She might never let him see his daughter again. His parents might never see their beloved grandchild.

But then, what was the alternative? Lie to everyone, like he'd been lying to himself for years. At some point, you just have to tell the truth and face the consequences. Which were, inevitably; Ilham kicking him out and Stan having to take the public blame for the failure of their marriage after less than a year. Benoît remembers reading that Stan had left his family to “concentrate on tennis” and wondering why on earth you would make a press statement that portrayed you in such a bad light. Also, nobody left their family to concentrate on tennis. It was basically unheard of. You were on tour most of the year anyway – tennis was the distraction to family life, not the other way around. Something sounded not quite right about it at the time; later, of course, everything fell into place.

Not that Stan felt hard-done-by in any way, quite the opposite. The failure of their marriage _was_ his fault; Ilham hadn't done anything wrong at all. For a long time afterwards, Stan felt he didn't deserve to be happy, that he was doomed to be alone forever.

By the time Benoît met him, Stan and his wife were supposedly “reconciled”, although it wasn't for almost a year that Stan confessed it was all a façade, that he was living alone in Geneva and hardly ever saw his daughter. Things are a lot better now. Stan's happy with Benoît, Ilham has forgiven him and moved on, and Alexia is a normal, happy five year old, with two parents who adore her, and doesn't remember anything of the tumultuous first two years of her life.

Donna was - is - a teenager with a crush. She started hanging around Stan a year ago, much to Stan's amusement and Benoît's increasing irritation. Stan is too nice to tell her to get lost (Benoît would have no such compunction), and of course, he can't explain exactly why she’s wasting her time because - well, the reason is sort of a secret. They're only out to some of their closest friends and family, and Donna doesn’t fit into either category. So Donna kept hanging around in her tiny shorts and tight t-shirts, and Stan just shrugged and laughed, and said she'd get bored eventually and move onto someone else.

Benoît didn't have the patience to wait. Besides, he's _been_ that person hanging around in tiny shorts and a tight t-shirt, trying to get Stan's attention, and even though he doesn't think for a moment he has anything to worry about, why take that risk? Since Donna repeatedly failed to take the hint, he decided to spell it out – by kissing Stan on the mouth in front of her, and then grabbing two nice big handfuls of Stan's arse, just in case she'd somehow missed the point. He assumed that would be the end of it, but no. Donna just adopted them as her new gay best friends instead, and continued to show up at Stan's matches (not Benoît's, he couldn't help noticing).

Since then, Benoît has grown to, if not exactly like, at least tolerate Donna's presence. Stan likes her – actually genuinely likes her, as a friend, so it doesn't seem like she'll be going anywhere any time soon. Of course, there have been rumours, but Stan's always laughed them off: "At least if people think I'm seeing Donna, they're not going to get suspicious about _us_." Indulging those rumours seemed pretty harmless at the time, but no longer.

Of course, Stan doesn't owe the public anything. They don't have the right to answers to their questions. He's just a tennis player. All that should matter is whether he wins or loses. Eventually, people will find something else to talk about, and this will all blow over.  _Eventually_. Right now, it feels like it will never fucking end.

 

====================

 

Benoît is in a taxi en-route to their hotel when they announce the draws. He laughs out loud when Kyrgios gets drawn against Andy Murray, the world no 2, and is still laughing several minutes later. It's too funny. The chances of Murray losing are somewhere in the region of nil. Fuckface will be on the first plane back to Australia, and they won't have to see his ugly face for the whole two weeks. More importantly, if he's out of the tournament, Stan won't have to play him in a later round, so maybe the press will actually leave him alone. Stan will be hugely relieved. Benoît is relieved _for_ him. Maybe with that pressure lifted, Stan might even stand a chance of winning. That would show the bastards.

Suddenly, Benoît's bad mood is lifted. He's in New York, he'll be reunited with Stan very soon, it's a gloriously hot, sunny day, and maybe, just maybe, this tournament will be the one where everything finally comes together for him. He hears the refrain of the familiar song in his head as the taxi pulls up outside the hotel.

_"If you can make it there,_

_You'll make it anywhere,_

_It's up to you,_

_New York, New York..."_

Benoît is still grinning when he walks into the lobby, flirts with the receptionist, and signs the register. He's happily excited now; Stan's here, in this building. He'll see him again in a matter of minutes.

His phone buzzes. He checks it while waiting for the lift.

A text from Gaël: _Bad luck :(_

Benoît's grin slips a little. Does Gaël mean bad luck for Kyrgios, drawing Murray? Because if so, that definitely deserves a happy smiley, not a sad one.

_Buzz._

_Buzz._

Edouard has sent him the exact same message (without the sad smiley; Edouard's not one for emojis), and so has Jo, with a p.s:

_At least NK is playing Murray, ha ha!_

His phone buzzes for a fourth time as he gets into the lift.

It's Stan this time: _Where r u?_

 _Be there in 3_ he texts back quickly, smiling at the thought of Stan waiting in their room, just as impatient to see Benoît as Benoît is to see him.

His phone buzzes once more as he gets out of the lift on the fourth floor. Gaël again:

_Maybe Kei will pull out?_

Benoît stops dead in the middle of the corridor, his heart plummeting. Gaël had better not mean what he thinks he means. He switches quickly back to the US Open website, where the very first thing he sees is that, yes, he's been drawn against the world no 4, Kei Nishikori. He swears under his breath. Surely the tennis gods would not be that cruel to him, not after he's worked so hard this year.

Stan opens the door the moment he puts his room card in the lock, and they look at each other in dismay.

“I got _Kei?_ ” Benoît exclaims, appalled.

“I know,” says Stan grimly, standing back to let Benoît into the room.

“This sucks,” says Benoît, shaking his head in disbelief, “This really fucking sucks.”

Stan nods. “It's rotten luck.”

He sinks down on the edge of the bed and patiently listens to Benoît raging about his shitty, shitty luck, offering the occasional sympathetic “I know” or “It's really unfair” whenever Benoît pauses for breath. Finally, Benoît remembers that Stan has a match too.

"Who did you get?"

Stan frowns, and checks his laptop. "Um... Albert Ramos-Vinolas. Spanish, I think? I haven't had a chance to look him up yet."

"He beat me in the final at San Sebastian in 2010," Benoît tells him. "And I played him in Croatia last year as well, remember?"

"Oh, yeah..." Stan nods, vaguely (he doesn't remember).

"He beat me then, too," says Benoît, darkly.

Stan makes a face. "I think I've played him a few times myself, but I can't remember that much about him."

"I beat him at Roland-Garros in 2012," Benoît remembers suddenly, cheering up. "Before I got pounded into the dust by Ferrer in the round of 64.”

Stan looks up Ramos-Vinolas on the ATP website. "I've played him four times," he says, surprised. "I should remember more about him. _Huh_. I've beaten him every time, but not easily. He's not going to be a walkover."

“What's his ranking?” Benoît demands.

“Um... 58.”

Benoît swears again. “Why couldn't _I_ have drawn someone ranked in the fifties? Someone I might actually have stood a chance of beating! Although the way I've been playing lately....”

“You won in Sweden,” Stan reminds him.

“Yeah, against Robredo, he's number 26 or something, he's not the fucking world number _four!”_

His phone buzzes in his hand again, and he swears and hurls it onto the bed, where it bounces off the mattress and crashes onto the floor. Stan winces.

Benoît throws his hands up in frustration. "Well, that's it, I might as well book my flight home for Monday night!"

"At least wait for Tuesday," Stan says dryly, "I'll come with you."

"Oh,  _come_  on, you won't go out in the first round, who's even heard of the guy you're playing?  _Fuck!_  I can't  _believe_  this! Why did I even bother coming here if I was just going to lose in the first round again?"

"I'm glad you're here," says Stan, quietly.

That calms Benoît down, a little. "Well... yeah, me too. I’m glad I’m here with you, anyway, even if the tournament's a washout.” He makes a frustrated noise. "I need a holiday. I'm so, so sick of fucking tennis."

"OK," says Stan.

"OK, what?"

"Let's go on holiday. Schedule's pretty full ‘til November, but maybe if I don't make it to the second week here, we could get away for a few days? I want to go home and see Alexia first, but then..."

Benoît hardly dares hope. "But  _t_ _hen_..?"

"Then we can go and lie on a beach somewhere."

“You don't like beach holidays. You get bored.”

Stan shrugs. “Usually, yeah. Right now, though, lying on a beach for a week and doing nothing sounds pretty damn good to me.”

"Private cabin?” asks Benoît, eagerly, “Palm trees? Cocktails? Waiter service?"

Stan grins. "I'm kind of wishing  _I'd_ drawn Nishikori in the first round now. We could have gone for two weeks."

Benoît laughs. "We can swap, if you like!"

"Maybe Kei will retire mid-match. He pulled out of Cincy with exhaustion, and he's had a few injuries this year."

Benoît affects outrage. "Is that the best I can hope for? He pulls out with an injury?"

"I still have every faith that you'll beat him."

"I'm not gonna beat him. He's no 4 in the world. Technically, he's better than  _you_."

Stan ignores that. "OK, you're probably not gonna beat him. But that means you can start doing some research for the holiday."

Benoît considers for a moment. "I could do that. Find the place with the sandiest sand." He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "The  _cock_ iest cocktails..."

Stan bites back a laugh, and Benoît laughs at him trying not to laugh. Their eyes lock. 

"Hmm," says Benoît, teasingly, "Maybe  _you_ should pull out with an injury..."

Stan sticks out a leg and hooks his foot around the back of Benoît's knee, pulling him closer.

Benoît remembers how much he's missed Stan this week, how much he was looking forward to their reunion, and instead it's just been him swearing about his bad draw for twenty minutes. They haven't even kissed hello yet. Well, that needs to be rectified _immediately_.

He nudges Stan's knees apart with his own and rests his hands on Stan's shoulders.

“Have I mentioned yet that I really missed you this week?”

Stan slides his hands around the back of Benoît's thighs to pull him closer still.

“I don't think you have, no.”

“Well, I did.”

Stan turns his head to press a kiss to Benoît's hand, and Benoît moves it up to caress Stan's cheek.

Stan swallows. Without taking his eyes off Benoît, he leans back on his elbows, and then pats the bed beside him invitingly. Benoît climbs onto the bed on his knees so he's kneeling astride Stan’s body, and leans down until their faces are nearly touching.

“Did you miss me?”

Stan pretends to consider, then gives an airy shrug. “Eh.”

Benoît draws back a little, setting his mouth in a protesting pout. _“_ Eh? _Eh?”_

Stan tries to lift himself up to meet Benoît's mouth, but Benoît pulls back, just out of reach.

Stan gives a little moan of frustration. “ _Yes_. Yes, of _course_ I missed you. _God_.”

“That's more like it. Honestly, I fly halfway round the country and tell him I missed him, and this is the kind of welcome I get? Sometimes I don't know why I even both-”

Stan, with no warning, jerks his knees up so Benoît pitches forward and lands right on top of him. Benoît just manages to throw out his hands to arrest his fall and stop himself headbutting Stan in the face.

“ _Fuck!_ What did you do that for? I could have broken your nose!”

Stan just shrugs, and smiles. “Got bored of waiting for you to stick your tongue in my mouth.”

Benoît laughs. “Oh, you should have _said._..”

Benoît likes to wait until the last possible moment to close his eyes, because he loves watching Stan's eyelids flutter closed, half a second before their lips meet.

“ _Ben,"_   Stan gasps, against his mouth.

Benoît loves that bit, too. He also loves the dopey smile Stan gets on his face afterwards, and - well, _everything_ about kissing Stan, really. He could happily just lie here kissing Stan all day, until his lips go numb, or, he remembers suddenly, Stan has to leave.

"What time's your sponsor thing?" Benoît asks, when they reluctantly break for air. He doesn't want to get into something he can't finish. It's been a frustrating enough day already.

Stan slumps back on the bed and throws an arm across his eyes. "Fuck! I'd forgotten about that!” He checks his watch. “They're sending a car to pick me up in about an hour and a half. Probably gonna be an all evening thing."

Benoît laughs at his frustration. "I'll wait up for you."

"I might be late, though.”

“That's OK,” grins Benoît, “As long as you make it worth my while.”

Stan huffs a laugh. “What time's  _your_  sponsor thing tomorrow?"

"Not ‘til midday. Plenty of time. I can afford to have a  _very_  late night."

“Good,” smiles Stan, reaching up and cupping Benoît's face in his hands. “Now, where were we?”

 

====================

 

Stan is getting ready for his sponsor event, while Benoît lounges on the bed and idly browses the TV channels.

"What are you going to wear?"

Stan shrugs. "I'll be standing next to Serena all night, I don't think anyone will be looking at me."

"Pfff!” scoffs Benoît. “Only all the women, all the gay men, and quite a lot of the straight ones too. So only basically  _everyone_."

Stan ignores him and continues to rummage in his suitcase, but Benoît can see him struggling to hide a smile.

"I thought my white shirt and black trousers," Stan says.

"Sooo... the same outfit you wore at the Roland-Garros photocall? And _all_ your promotional events?"

"I _like_ the white shirt," says Stan, defensively.

"Of course, you look totally hot in it. Like a sexy waiter. But not the black trousers again. People will think you only have one pair of trousers. It reflects badly on me."

Stan laughs out loud. "On  _you?_ "

Benoît gets to his feet, pushes Stan aside, and takes over the rummaging through Stan's suitcase. "Wear these," he says, holding up a pair of black jeans.

Stan raises an eyebrow. "Don't wear  _those_  black trousers, wear  _these_  black trousers?"

"Yes, exactly. These are better. Tighter."

"It's a promo thing for watches. Nobody's going to be looking at my arse."

"Everyone is  _always_  looking at your arse, darling. Er, hello? _Underwear model?!_ Wear these."

Stan flushes. "I'm not an underwear model."

"You've got a contract to model underwear, haven't you? Ergo; you are an underwear model. That's what I tell people, anyway. My boyfriend's an underwear model. Everyone is sooo jealous!"

Stan makes a face. He has gone a very fetching shade of crimson.

“By the way,” Benoît continues, “I still don’t see why you can’t get D. Hedral to send me some free pants. What is the point of dating an underwear model if you can’t get free pants out of it?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ll just ring them up and ask them to send some pants for my boyfriend. I’m sure they wouldn’t _immediately cancel the contract_ if they knew I was gay.”

“You don’t have to tell them they’re for _me_ , just ask if they can send some in a different size.”

“Why would I need some in a different size?”

“Well -“ Benoît begins, then stops. He can’t think of a good reason. That won’t stop him asking, though. He’ll wear Stan down eventually. He always does.

"Wear the jeans," he insists, holding them up against Stan's body to demonstrate why they would be a good choice.

Stan grabs them from his hands and shoves him away. " _Fine,_ " he sighs, "I'll wear the jeans."

 

======================

 

**Day 2: Friday 28th August 2015**

Benoît is lying on the sofa watching the video of Stan playing table-tennis with Serena Williams at his sponsor event last night. Stan's beating her hands-down, mainly because she keeps playing to his backhand. He was right about those jeans, Benoît thinks, smugly.

Stan is brushing his teeth in the bathroom.

”I was right about those jeans!” Benoît calls to him.

Stan appears in the doorway of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. “What?”

“I was right about those jeans,” Benoît repeats, turning the laptop around to show Stan that he's freeze-framed the video on a shot of Stan's backside. “Why d'you think they asked you to play table-tennis, and then kept the camera at your end all the time? Literally _on_ your end, in fact...”

Stan shakes his head and goes back into the bathroom.

Benoît grins, and resumes watching the video. He loves embarrassing Stan about this kind of stuff. Embarrassed Stan is especially hot.

His phone buzzes. A text from Nico checking their plans for the day. Olympique Marseille are playing tonight, but the time difference (France is 6 hours ahead) means the match starts at 2.30 in the afternoon. He fervently hopes his sponsor event doesn’t drag on too long, or he’ll miss kick-off. As it is, he’ll be cutting it fine. There’s a French-owned bar in Brooklyn where they show Ligue 1 matches on a big TV. Edouard, Nico and himself all got horribly drunk there once, the year they all lost on the same day, and, after they left the bar, somehow got on the wrong train and ended up at Coney Island, watching the sea lion show at the aquarium. Benoît fully expects he'll end up there on Monday too, drowning his sorrows. The bar, not the sea lion show.

 

====================

 

That evening, Stan and Benoît meet for an early dinner at a restaurant near the hotel. It's been a long week, the place is noisy, and they're both tired, so they don't stay long. Benoît goes up to the bar to pay so they can leave faster. He cannot help but notice that the barman is exceedingly handsome, in a dark, Italian kind of way. Well, he's allowed to notice, isn't he? There's absolutely no harm in just _noticing_.

“Did you enjoy your meal?” the handsome barman asks, reaching behind the bar for their bill.

“Yes, thank you,” Benoît replies, in English. “It was very nice.”

The barman looks up and smiles, with a flash of perfect white teeth. Barman-slash-model, Benoît thinks, or barman-slash-actor. Benoît was once, just for a few months, a barman-slash-tennis player. He’s never once met a barman or waiter who wasn’t doing it to finance some other dream. 

“Not as nice as your accent,” the barman says. “Is that French?”

Benoît returns the smile. “Oui. _Yes_ , I mean.”

“Whereabouts in France are you from?”

“Avignon, in the south. Near to Marseille.”

“Ah, that explains the tan!”

Benoît laughs. He had suspected he was being flirted with, the way the barman met his gaze directly and held it just a little too long, but now he's certain.

“Actually, the tan is mostly from your country.”

“Oh, you've been travelling? Where've you been?”

“All over. Last week I was in North Carolina, and before that in Cincinnati, and before that in Hamburg. And yes, I _am_ aware that Hamburg is not actually in your country.”

“Actually, nor are the others – I'm Canadian!”

They both laugh.

“So, where to next?”

“Home. Which is not actually _my_ country either. I live in Switzerland now. It is very lovely – lots of lakes and mountains – but not many nice beaches to sunbathe on.”

“Not _any_ , surely? Isn't it totally landlocked?”

“Ha ha! Yes, that is true. It has very good chocolate, but no beaches at all.”

“So you had to come here to top up your tan?”

“Sort of,” Benoît replies, evasively. “My job is mostly outdoors, so -”

“So how long are you in New York?”

“Ah, well... that is a good question. Maybe just the weekend?”

“You don't know?”

Benoît shrugs and laughs.

“Just the weekend, huh? That is a shame. You like clubbing? Night clubs?”

“I used to, when I was younger. Now it is not so possible, because... of work.”

“Well, it's Saturday tomorrow,” grins the barman. “No work tomorrow, surely?”

“Nooo...” concedes Benoît, seeing straight away where this is going. “No work tomorrow.”

“Well... if you're interested, I know some great clubs. I get off work at one, if you wanna come back about midnight, have a few drinks on the house?”

“Ah. That is very nice of you, but I don't think my boyfriend would like it.”

The barman sighs, and rolls his eyes heavenwards. “Why do they _always_ have boyfriends?”

Benoît gives an apologetic shrug. “I am sorry.”

He is not sorry.

The barman isn't giving up just yet. “Maybe your boyfriend doesn't need to know,” he says, hopefully, “If he's back in Switzerland...?”

“He's over there,” Benoît cuts in, quickly. He turns and nods over to where Stan is sitting, engrossed in his phone as usual.

The barman follows his gaze. “Blondish, phone, great arms?”

Benoît laughs. “Great lots of things!”

The barman laughs as well. “He could come too?”

“He is not really one for nightclubs, but thanks for the offer.”

“Ah, well. You can't say I didn't try.”

“You did, and I was very flattered.”

“Well, in case you change your mind...” He scribbles his name on one of the restaurant's cards and slides it across the bar.

Benoît smiles to show there's no hard feelings, but doesn’t pick it up. “Thanks, but... I really won't. Should I perhaps pay the bill now?”

The handsome barman shrugs, and laughs. “Yes, let’s do that.”

Back at the table, Stan glances up when he arrives.

“Sorry about that,” Benoît tells him airily, “The barman wanted to set up a threesome.”

Stan raises a disbelieving eyebrow.

“No, really!” Benoît laughs. “He said you had great arms.”

Stan cranes his head to see. “Which one?”

Benoît puts his hands on his hips in mock-offence. “Why, are you considering it?”

“Depends. Which one is he?

“Well, I'm not telling you _now!”_

Stan smiles and gets to his feet, putting his phone back in his pocket. “I'm not considering it.”

“Good, because he was really ugly. Almost deformed, in fact.”

“Oh, right. So not that really gorgeous Italian guy who's looking this way?”

“Uh-huh. No. Definitely not him. And he's Canadian, anyway.”

Stan raises a quizzical eyebrow, and Benoît immediately realises his mistake.

They both laugh, and Stan rests a hand on Benoît's arm and leans in close, lowering his voice in a conspiratorial manner.

“I've got a better idea for a threesome, anyway.”

“Yeah?” says Benoît, warily.

“Yeah. You, me and FIFA on the PS3.”

Benoît laughs out loud. “Filthy bitch.”

Stan laughs too. “You love it.”

And Benoît does.

 

====================

 

**Day 3: Saturday 29th August 2015**

Benoît's meeting Edouard for lunch in a little Italian place down town. It's a bit of a tradition, wherever in the world they are; find an Italian restaurant and order their combined weight in ham and mozzarella. They don't talk about tennis, by mutual, unspoken agreement. Edouard didn't even make it through qualifying in singles, so it would be rather churlish for Benoît to complain about his unlucky first round draw. Edouard's still playing doubles, though, and he's just won with Daniel Nestor in Cincinnati _and_ made it to the final in Montreal, so Benoît doesn't feel too sorry for him.

Benoît is playing doubles too, with the Belgian Steve Darcis this time, although he doesn't love it like Edouard does. It helps that in Nestor, Edouard seems to have found someone he really gels with. They've been playing together less than a month and already they have two sets of trophies to show for it. So Edouard isn't as bothered about not qualifying in singles as he might have been, because he's too excited about the genuine possibility of winning a Slam with Nestor. He's trying to keep a lid on it, of course, but Benoît knows him well enough to see the bloom of new-found confidence. It's Benoît's first time playing with Darcis. He's not expecting instant results like Edouard & Nestor, but it would be nice to at least get beyond the first round. Especially as he's been so royally fucked over by the singles draw.

If Stan would play with him, of course, if they started winning together again, Benoît might be happy to ditch singles completely. Benoît has played doubles with lots of different people, including Edouard a few times, but he's only ever won once, with Stan, in Chennai in 2012. Back before Stan started winning Slams, and Benoît's bastard knee stopped him winning anything. Before they were even together, in fact. It would be different now. The two of them travelling around the world, playing together, living together, never needing to be in different time zones... it would be _amazing_. Well, that's how he feels today, anyway. He's playing doubles for money and points, and also because he sees Edouard having such success with it after a mediocre singles career and wonders if maybe that's where his future might lie too. Maybe he was never meant to be a singles player.

He's not sure who he's trying to convince. He played doubles last week in Winston-Salem and lost in the first round. He just needs to win at _something_. It's been a year since he fell out of the top 100 and it's taken all this time to work his way back up into the top 50. He's clawed his way back up the rankings this year, playing what feels like hundreds of matches and tournaments, signing up for everything, just for the points, just to get back up there. If he plays badly here - and thanks to that shitty draw, he doesn't have much a chance to do otherwise - he'll fall out of the top 50 again. His win in Bastad just a month ago already feels like a blip, not the proof of his career finally getting back on track.

The last time Benoît played Nishikori was in the round of 32 at Roland-Garros in 2013, where he lost in 4 sets, managing to scrape a win in one of them by taking it to a tiebreak. The other 3 sets were pretty comprehensive defeats. He lost to him at the Paris Masters the year before that, too. Since then, of course Nishikori has rocketed into the top 10, and is now - despite not having actually won a single Slam - the world no 4, one above Stan. Benoît is a loyal boyfriend, he doesn't think Kei should be above Stan when Stan just won Roland-Garros. OK, so it's a couple of months ago now, but still... If Nishikori had pulled out last week, Stan would be seeded no 4 and would have a much better draw, and Benoît would be playing someone else, and might actually stand a chance of making it beyond the first round.

Benoît hasn't ever made it further than the second round at the US Open – or the third round at  _any_  slam - and it looks like this isn't going to be his year either.

 _Australian Open:_ lost in the 1st round of qualifying, not even in the main draw.

 _Roland-Garros:_ came up against Berdych in the round of 32; lost the 1st set, managed to edge the 2nd in a tie-breaker, then promptly lost the next two.

 _Wimbledon:_ Went out in the round of 64 against Bautista-Agut; actually won the first 2 sets and should havewon the match, but then everything went to shit, as it always does at Wimbledon. Even that was an improvement on the previous year, where he lost in the first round to someone ranked 100 places lower than him.

Benoît hates Wimbledon, with their stupid all-white clothing rule and stupid little straw hats and stupid strawberries and stupid cream. Not to mention their stupid warnings for kicking the line judge's chair and stupid fines for breaking rackets... Grass is not his surface, either; he slips and slides, and it plays havoc with his dodgy knee. If he could, he would happily never play Wimbledon again. Roger Federer can keep it, thank you very much. The US Open, though... he had such high hopes coming to America, off the back of his win in Sweden, and _now_...

 

====================

 

Benoît is on his way back to the hotel when he gets a text from Stan:

_Feel like getting really drunk, but can't. Any suggestions?_

_Why? What happened?_   Benoît texts back.

_Fuckface made another press statement. Says it's not his problem if I haven't accepted his apology. Some fucking apology. Wish he'd just shut up and let it die._

_Or just die_ texts Benoît, then adds: _Where r u?_

Then: _Want to hit a few balls?_

Then: _I don't mean at Kyrgios_

_Although actually... :D_

_Can we hit a few balls AT his balls?_ Stan texts back, and Benoît laughs out loud.

_I'm up for it if u r!_

_Maybe another time? I just finished practice with Roger._

_Meet u back at the hotel? U can work off some of yr frustration on me._

Stan sends a thumbs up and a smiley, then: _Need a shower first, all sweaty._

_Excellent, get in the shower, soap up, and I'll meet you in there._

_I feel better already. :D_

_I feel other things already!_ Benoît texts back at once.

_So stop texting and hurry up!_

_Taxi!_ Benoît texts back, grinning as he pictures Stan's laughter in response to that.

Three minutes and one brilliant idea later he calls Stan in person: "I actually  _am_  in a taxi! I couldn't wait."

Stan's laughing. "You might have to start without me."

"OK, but I don't think the taxi driver will like it."

"Ha ha ha! Is he hot?"

"Well, he's sweaty..."

"Bet he's not as sweaty as I am."

"I dunno, he's giving you a good run for your money."

"What does he look like?"

"Little Indian guy. Bald. Fifties. _Totally_ my type."

Stan laughs out loud. "I really hope he doesn't understand French!"

"I hope he does, I might get a free ride."

Stan affects outrage. "A free w _hat?_ "

Benoît chuckles. "Have you ever done it in the back of a taxi?"

"No!"

"No, me neither. I did get a blowjob on a night bus once..."

"Of course you did. Hang on, on a  _night bus?_ Where was this?"

"Um... Paris."

"Upstairs or downstairs?"

"Well, it was a single decker..."

At the other end of the line, Stan laughs and laughs, and Benoît holds the phone against his ear and smiles. Ten minutes ago Stan was completely miserable, and  _now_... Benoît considers that a job well done. He may only be ranked 41 in tennis, but he's no 1 in cheering up boyfriends. They should give him a trophy.

“Oh,” he continues, “I was lying earlier, by the way.”

“About what? 

“My type. Not little Indian taxi drivers.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Huh.”

Benoît waits for the obvious question, but Stan stays silent. He's good at that. Benoît wouldn't have the patience.

“ _Well?”_

“Well, what?” says Stan, innocently.

Benoît gives an exaggerated sigh. “Ask me what my type is.”

“OK, I'll bite. What _is_ your type?”

“My type is muscular Swiss tennis players.”

“That seems like a pretty niche type. I might know a few I could introduce you to, though.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. Belinda's quite muscular.”

“Unless she has a _cock_ ,” Benoît tells him impatiently, “I'm not interested.”

“Oh, you should have _said!_ Hmm... let me think... there's Marco...”

Benoît cuts him off quickly before he can go through every Swiss tennis player ever. “No, it's actually even more niche than that. They need to be in the top ten or I can't get it up.”

There is a short silence at the other end of the phone, then:

“Ben.”

“Stan.”

“You know Roger's married, right?

Benoît catches sight of his own face in the rear-view mirror. His grin is as wide as Lake Geneva is long. He rearranges his expression so Stan won't hear the smile.

“I do know that, Stanley, yes.”

He can hear Stan chuckle on the other end of the line. “Well, then,” Stan says, with a sigh, “I'm all out of ideas.”

“That's fine,” says Benoît. “I've got plenty of ideas of my own.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really. Meet me in the shower in five minutes and I'll show you some of them.”

“Five minutes?” Stan sounds a little strangled.

“Or less. I'm just pulling up outside the hotel. Where are you?”

“In the lobby, waiting for the lift.”

“Stay where you are!” Benoît shouts. He pays the driver, waves away his attempts to give Benoît change, and jumps from the cab, half-running into the hotel and through the lobby. Stan is waiting for him by the lift, leaning against the wall with his hands nonchalantly in his pockets. They exchange grins, and dive into the lift just as the doors are closing.

Benoît whips his shirt over his head, and Stan's eyes go wide. "What are you  _doing?_ " he hisses.

"Just saving time," grins Benoît, with a nonchalant shrug.

Before Stan can reply, the lift doors open again.  Two middle-aged ladies are standing there with suitcases. 

" _Oh!"_  they both exclaim simultaneously, at the sight of the tall, tanned, and - most importantly - _shirtless_ young man standing literally touching distance away from them.

"Sorry!" says one of the women, clearly flustered. "We'll get the next one."

Benoît flashes them one of his finest grins and gestures for them to enter the lift. 

" _Non_ , it is I who must be sorry," he says, in English, but dialling up the “sexy French accent” to what he knows are near-lethal levels. "It is vair 'ot, you see, and we are nearly 'ome. I did not think anyone would see."

The women step into the lift, and the doors close. Benoît makes a pantomime of going to put his shirt back on, but they protest. 

"No, no, not on our account!" 

"We don't mind!" 

"Well, that is vair kind of you." 

The women giggle, a little nervously. They do not know where to look. Well, they _do_ ; that's half the trouble.

"Aren't you tall?"

"Yes, he's very tall."

"How tall are you, if you don't mind us asking?"

"Not at all. It is one hundred and ninety-six centimetres. That is six foot five,” he adds quickly, seeing their confusion. (Benoît has been asked how tall he is in probably every country in the world)

"Oh, my lord!" one of them exclaims. "Six foot five!"

"I just love your accent," the other cuts in. "Where are you from?" 

"Avignon. France. Can you not tell from my  _terrible_ French accent?" 

"We don't think it's terrible!" 

"No, we think it's  _delightful_." 

Benoît pretends to get all coy and embarrassed. "Oh,  _merci_. So, where are you ladies from?"

"From North Carolina. I bet you don't even know where that is, do you?" 

"Actually, it is a coincidence, but I was there last week."

"You're making fun of us!" 

"I can assure you I am not. I was in a place called Winston-Salem."

"What on earth were you doing there?"

Benoît gives them one of his finest Gallic shrugs. "Playing tennis. That is why I am here in New York, in fact; to play at the US Open." He leaves a suitable pause, for them to be impressed. 

The ladies just smile back blankly. They are clearly not sports fans. 

Benoît gestures towards Stan, who is both trying to keep a straight face, and hide in the corner of the tiny lift, neither with any success. 

"My friend here is also a tennis player -" (Stan opens his mouth to speak) "- although I am afraid that he does not speak any English." (Stan closes it again, and shoots Benoît an _I'll get you later_ look.)

The ladies barely glance at Stan, then return their gazes to Benoît, more specifically his bare torso. To be fair, though, he's a good foot taller than either of them, so that's just naturally where their eyes fall. Yes, that's definitely the reason.

"He is much better than me," Benoît tells them, looking sorrowful. 

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true," they both protest, "I'm sure you're very good." 

"You are too kind. Oh, this is our floor. It has been a pleasure."

"Oh, you have to go? It was so nice to meet you!" 

He bends to kiss their hands - _“Enchanté!”_ \- and they both giggle uproariously.

“Goodbye!”

“Yes, goodbye!”

“Au revoir!” Benoît calls over his shoulder as he walks away.

“That wasn't nice,” Stan chides him, gripping Benoît's hips from behind and pushing him bodily down the corridor towards their room.

“What do you mean?” laughs Benoît, not making any attempt to resist. “I totally made their afternoon, come on!”

Stan shakes his head. “Yeah, you probably did,” he admits, fishing in his pocket for the room card, “You and your ridiculous _sexy French accent_.” He imitates Benoît's exaggerated Franglais: _“Ohhh, I am so sorry! My shirt has just fallen off! I am sooo embarrassed!”_

“Ha ha! Yes, maybe I should get a new boyfriend. My sexy French accent is totally wasted on you.”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that...” Stan growls, dragging him into their room, shoving Benoît up against the inside of the door and pinning his wrists over his head.

Benoît thinks, as Stan's lips mash hungrily against his, that maybe he won't get a new boyfriend after all.

 

====================

 

**Day 4: Sunday 30th August 2015**

Sunday night, 10 p.m. Benoît is already in bed, waiting for Stan to finish in the bathroom and join him. Benoît's match is first up on Armstrong tomorrow, but he has an early practice scheduled beforehand. He can't decide whether he's more nervous or just resigned about the whole thing.

"You know," he says aloud, "I think I could get over losing in the first round, as long as Murray thrashes Kyrgios in three straight sets. All bagels, preferably. I could go home with a big smile on my face after that."

Stan comes out of the bathroom, turns off the light, and climbs into bed beside him.

"I'd rather put up with him beating Murray and being insufferably smug about it the whole of the next two weeks, if it meant you beat Nishikori. It would be  _amazing_. I wouldn't give a shit about fucking Kyrgios if you made it to the quarters."

Benoît chuckles. "Aw. You're the  _best_  boyfriend." He thinks for a moment. "Although... if Fuckface beats Murray, and then carries on winning,  _you'll_  have to play him in the quarters."

"Hmm, good point.  _Allez_ , Murray!" 

"Yeah! Allez, Murray! Beat the little shit!"

They both laugh.

"Oh," Benoît remembers suddenly, "I had a dream the other night -"

Stan raises an eyebrow. "Am I gonna want to hear this?"

Benoît pushes him in the shoulder. "Not  _that_  kind of dream! Well - not on this particular night, anyway. There was another night last week when -"

" _Ben_."

"Okay, okay! I dreamed I got drawn against Fuckface, and I smashed a racket over his head and got a massive fine and a six month suspension."

Stan is laughing before he's even finished the sentence. "You smashed a racket over his head?"

"In my  _dream_... not in real life! Although, if I got the chance to do it in real life too, I obviously would..."

"Well, of course. No-one would turn down that opportunity. Anyway, you wouldn't get a fine and a suspension, you'd get a standing ovation."

"They'd make a special trophy, just for me."

"They would. Bigger than the actual trophy. Benoît Paire; Saviour of the US Open."

"Not just the US Open; saviour of the whole of tennis."

"They'd hold a ticker-tape parade for you in Times Square."

"They'd give me the keys to the city. One of those giant keys, like in a cartoon!"

"Children would high-five you in the street."

"Pushing Novak and Serena out of the way so they can touch the hand that held the racket that whacked Kyrgios..."

"They'd award you 5,000 extra points, and automatic qualification for the World Tour Finals. And a first round bye for every tournament you play in, for  _life_."

"I'd be the number-one trending topic on Twitter! Not just in France;  _internationally!_ "

Stan laughs out loud. "They'd make the 31st August a new public holiday and name it after you: Benoît Paire Day."

"Ha ha ha! Benoît Paire Day! I like the sound of that. Hmm, how would you celebrate Benoît Paire Day, I wonder?"

"You'd sit on the beach and drink cocktails, of course."

"Yes! Perfect! You know me so well. What else?"

"Some sort of special meal, but instead of Christmas dinner, it's burgers out of a cardboard box. With fries."

"I  _love_  it! How can we make this happen?" 

"Well, first you'd have to smash Kyrgios in the face with a tennis racket."

Benoît affects shock. "In the  _face?_   I was only going to hit him over the  _head!_   You want me to hit him in the  _face?_   Stanley! I'm surprised at you!"

They're both laughing so much now it's hard to breathe.

"You know," says Stan, when he's recovered his composure a little, "Having you defend my honour with a tennis racket is kind of hot, even if it is only a dream..."

Benoît's eyebrows shoot up. " _Really?_  Interesting..."

"You have a match in just over twelve hours," Stan points out hurriedly, "So we can't do anything tonight."

"You brought it up!" protests Benoît. "Anyway, it's not like it would make any difference. I'm still going to lose."

It hits him like a cold shower. He's going to lose. He's going to lose in the first round, _again_. Next week, when the new rankings come out, he'll have dropped back out of the top 50. It all feels desperately unfair.

“You don't know that for sure,” Stan tells him. “You took Novak to a tiebreak in Cincy. _Novak!_ Kei's good, but he's no Novak Djokovic. All you need is a couple of extra points to win the first set, then do it again. That's all.”

Benoît gives him a rueful smile. “That's all, huh?”

Stan returns the smile, and gives Benoît's hand a reassuring squeeze. “You can do it, I know you can. You've beaten top ten players before.”

“When?” demands Benoît, incredulously.

“Del Potro in Rome, for one. And you beat _me_ in Montreal, remember?”

“Yeah, _once_ , two years ago! Anyway, you were only just in the top ten then, weren't you? And I was ranked 26 or 27. So I was better than I am now, and you were worse!”

“You still _beat_ me. And you can beat Nishikori, too.” He leans over and presses a warm kiss to Benoît's cheek. “Now get some sleep.”

Benoît makes a non-committal noise and reaches out to turn off the light. He lies there for a long time, listening to Stan's breathing settle into sleep but unable to sleep himself, his brain whirring with unwanted thoughts.

In two days’ time he'll be back at home, thousands of miles away, watching Stan's matches on television in the middle of the night. He won't be here to celebrate with Stan when he wins, or comfort him when he loses. If Stan makes it all the way to the semi-finals or beyond, he won't see him for two weeks, until he returns to Geneva for the Davis Cup play-offs. After that, Stan will be off to Metz and Benoît to St. Petersburg, then together to Tokyo, and then Stan's playing Shanghai and Basel, and Benoît's playing Brest and Valencia. A Slam is a rare opportunity for them to spend two whole weeks together. Or _was_ , until he drew Nishikori in the first round.

He's getting melancholy. This is a fine subject to be dwelling on the night before his first round match at the US Open. Stan's here _now_ , and they'll have one more day and night together before Benoît has to depart for home, tail between legs, US Open campaign in tatters, hard-earned ranking points lost, and new tennis shoes barely scuffed.

Tomorrow will be his third 1st or 2nd round loss in a row, fourth if you count the doubles in Winston-Salem. Winning that trophy in Bastad seems like a lifetime ago. _Oh!_ Doubles. He's still got to play _fucking doubles_.

He sighs, and turns onto his side, snuggling up to Stan's back and finding his hand in the dark. Stan mumbles something in his sleep, and Benoît presses a kiss to the back of Stan's neck.

“I love you, too,” he whispers.

Stan's love is very nice, he thinks, but right now he would seriously consider swapping it, just for a day, for Stan's Slam-winning backhand.

 

====================

 

**Day 5: Monday 31st August 2015**

_**K. Nishikori (JAP) vs. B. Paire (FRA)** _

 

There's a car waiting downstairs to take him to the grounds, but Benoît is dawdling in their room, not quite ready to leave yet. Finally, though, he can delay no longer.

“Well,” he says heavily, hauling his kit bag over his shoulder, “I'll see you later, I guess.”

Stan puts his hand on Benoît's shoulder and gives it an encouraging squeeze. “Just do what you did against Novak. Play your best, have fun, and make the most of your chance on the big stage. Basically, just be your usual awesome self." 

Benoît doesn't feel particularly awesome today. Mostly, he feels a sort of resigned misery.

"Oh, and try not to break any rackets this time," Stan jokes.

Benoît manages a watery smile, mostly for Stan's benefit. "I promise nothing."

"Also... if you win, I promise to give you the most mind-blowing celebratory sex of your life." 

"Huh. You know that's just going to make things worse when I lose, don't you? Losing in the first round,  _and_  no sex? Talk about rubbing it in!"

“Well... what would you like if you lose?”

“ _If_ I lose!” scoffs Benoît, “I don't think there's any doubt, is there? Maybe just hold me while I cry?”

Stan doesn't say anything, just gives Benoît an awkward hug (it's kind of hard to hug someone when they're carrying a bag full of tennis rackets), kisses him on the cheek and tells him, “Good luck. You can do it.”

“I don't need luck,” Benoît mutters, as he turns to leave, “I need a miracle.”

 

====================

 

He starts so well, somehow managing to break Nishikori early and win the first set 6-4. And then it all goes downhill. Benoît loses the second set 6-3, in what seems like minutes. Time is never on your side when you're playing badly. When he's losing, he has a tendency to lose confidence and make stupid mistakes, which make him frustrated and angry, and thus more likely to make more mistakes.

The third set crawls on for what feels like hours, until he gets broken in the seventh game, then very quickly it's 5-3, then 6-3, and he's 2 sets to 1 down. The only way he's going to win this match now is if it goes to five sets, and he wins both of the next two, which is _obviously going to happen_ , he thinks, sarcastically. Nishikori's the number 4 seed in the world and was a finalist here last year, so he's used to playing five-setters. He has a distinct advantage. Well, let's be honest here - _all_ the advantages. Benoît has very little experience of playing five-set matches, because outside of the majors, everyone only plays best-of-three as standard. If this was any other tournament, he'd already be crying in the showers about now.

Benoît gives himself a stern talking to between sets. He just needs one break. Just one. Come _on_ , Paire. You've won one set already (even if that triumph already feels like hours ago), you just need to win another one. And then another. But start with one break. One point. _Allez!_

The fourth set crawls upwards just like the third did, with no breaks for anyone. He starts getting a little anxious at the thought that this might go to a tie-break. Tie-breaks always make him nervous. He has a long history of double-faulting under pressure. It would be agony to lose the match that way. Then, suddenly, he's 5-4 up, it's Nishikori's service game, and he needs to break now. _Now_ , Paire! You can do this. You can do it. One game, to win the set and level the match. Win this, and worry about the fifth set later. But then he's 15-0 down, then 30-0, then 40-0, all in about ten seconds flat, and that's it, it's going to a fucking tie-break, he just knows it. Benoît hates tie-breaks. You need nerves of steel, and Benoît's are made of blancmange.

Ten minutes later, he's sitting back down again, slightly stunned, and the score is 2 sets all. He won the tie-break. He's taken two sets off the world no 4, last year's runner-up. And now he's got to play a fifth fucking set! He wonders, briefly, if Stan has finished his practice and is watching the match. Would he have his phone on him on court? Probably not. Someone would have texted to tell him, surely. He wants Stan to see this. Even if he loses now, he'll go down in a blaze of glory. And maybe... maybe he _won't_ lose. Maybe he'll win. Maybe it'll go to another tiebreak. One point either way, and... Suddenly, it actually seems possible. He could win this. He could actually fucking _win_ it.

It's all a blur after that. Maybe Nishikori's not fully fit. Maybe Benoît just _wants_ it more. Before he knows it, he's broken Nishikori again, he's 4-2 up and that win seems tantalisingly close. Nishikori wins his service game to take it to 4-3, and now it's Benoît's turn to serve once more. If he can win this game, if he can just get to 5, he'll be one game away from winning the match. No, don't think about that. Just win _this_ point, _this_ game. Don't let him back in. Don't fuck it up.

15-0.  _Yes!_

30-0.

40-0. Oh. My. God.

40-15.  _Fuck._ FUCK.

Come ON, Paire!

_Yes!_

It's 5-3. It's  _5 fucking 3._

He's one game away. One game. That's all.

Nishikori wins his service game to take it to 5-4, but Benoît is already thinking about the next one. He's going to serve for the match. He's going to serve for the fucking _match._

One more game.

You can do it.

Be calm.

Don't panic and double fault.

OK.

_OK._

Here goes nothing.

0-15.

_Fuck._

15-15. Yes!

Come _on_.

30-15.

No, no, stay calm. Stay calm. Just think about this next point. Don't think about winning. Just concentrate on this next point.

40-15.

Match point.

Oh. My. God.

He has a match point. Against the no 4 seed. In the US Open.

You can do it. You _can_.

Think of the incredible sex you're going to get later if you win this.

He takes a deep breath... and hits an ace down the line. 

 

===================

 

There's a moment later when someone - a journalist? - asks him a question about his second round opponent, and Benoît just starts laughing. He doesn't have a clue who's he playing in the second round. He never looked at the draw beyond Nishikori. It seemed impossible. Suddenly, his phone is ringing off the hook. Suddenly, everyone wants to talk to him. Suddenly, he has over a thousand new Twitter followers. Winning a trophy at a 250 tournament in Sweden is one thing, but in New York, at the US Open, knocking out the no 4 seed in the first round can make you a celebrity. He is fucking trending on fucking Twitter. Not just in France; _internationally._

He sees Stan briefly, but there are lots of other people around, so they can't say everything they want to say, and he can't - as he wants to - grab Stan and snog his face off. The look of shining pride on Stan's face is enough for now though. Stan hugs him and shouts, "You were amazing!  _Amazing!_ " in Benoît's ear, and Benoît tries to play it cool and fails miserably. They beam at each other and laugh at the sheer incredible joy of it, hug again, and then Benoît is dragged off to do an interview, the first of many that afternoon with reporters from seemingly every nation on earth. Afterwards, he wants to go out for drinks to celebrate, so it's hours later before he makes it back to the hotel room. Unfortunately, Benoît's friends are all tennis players, so a night out for them on day one of the US Open mainly involves the drinking of a lot of mineral water, and finishes at half past nine.

Stan is already in bed when he gets back to their room. Benoît drops his gear bag, kicks off his shoes, and scrambles across the bed to reach Stan as quickly as possible.

“Hello, hot stuff,” grins Stan. “You were amaz-”

Benoît doesn't have time for greetings, or compliments. Well, not right now, anyway. Later, Stan can shower him with as many compliments as he likes. Later, he can tell Benoît exactly how amazing he is in minute, glorious detail. At this precise moment, though, Benoît just wants that snog he didn't get earlier.

"So..." says Benoît, when they eventually break apart, “I believe I was promised the most mind-blowing celebratory sex ever if I beat Nishikori? So come on, pay up.”

Stan laughs. “I _knew_ you'd remember that! I'm really sorry, but can we take a raincheck? I've got a match tomorrow...”

Benoît groans. “I knew it!”

“... but how does a mind-blowing celebratory blow-job sound?”

“Like the perfect end to a perfect day,” says Benoît, smiling.

“Well, give me three minutes, and I promise to give you _all_ my attention.”

Benoît makes himself comfortable while Stan is in the bathroom, settling back into the pillows, the lovely soft pillows. He closes his eyes, just to rest them, just for a moment. The events of the day replay themselves like a montage on the insides of his eyelids. Alone in the silence, it hits him properly; he _beat_ Nishikori. He knocked out the world number 4 in the first round of the US Open. He really did it. And, he suddenly realises, that almost certainly means Nishikori will slip down the rankings and Stan will be back up to number 4 in his place. That really is the icing on the cake of an incredible day. A brilliant, wonderful, very long, very strange, utterly exhausting day...

He doesn't hear Stan switching off the bathroom light, or quietly saying his name, and he doesn't feel Stan climbing into bed beside him, or the kiss on the cheek Stan gives him before turning out the light.

 

====================

 

 

 


	2. Hot In The City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating... turns out it's *really* hard to write tennis matches! Anyway, hope you enjoy. All comments appreciated.

**Day 6: Tuesday 1st September 2015**

_**A. Ramos-Vinolas (ESP) vs. S. Wawrinka (SUI)** _

Benoît wakes up to more messages of congratulation than he can count, and the news that he is on the front cover of  _L'Equipe_. He would have had even more press to do today, but Lionel turned everything down on his behalf because, as he keeps reminding Benoît, he has  _another match_ tomorrow, and what is the point in knocking out the world no 4 in the first round, only to lose in the second? Lionel is a spoilsport.

Stan and Benoît are eating breakfast in bed and going through yesterday's results on their phones to see how they affect their draws. Stan ordered room service last night because he knew Benoît would be too tired to get up and go downstairs for breakfast. Benoît is now systematically working his way through every kind of pastry known to man.

"Dolgopolov  _retired?_ " he exclaims, sitting up straight and almost knocking the plate of pastries into Stan's lap. Stan removes it to the bedside table. "That means if I get through Ilhan, I'll be playing  _Robredo!_ " He shakes his fist theatrically at the sky. "Why is it  _always_  Robredo?"

Stan chuckles. "Ah, your evil nemesis. You beat him in Bastad, though."

"I did, didn't I?" Benoît allows himself to enjoy that memory for a moment, then returns his gaze to the draws. "And then if I get through him, I've got Jo.  _Huh_. Still, be nice to get further than the second round, for once."

"You can beat Jo. You just beat the world no 4.”

"We'll see. Noooo, Gaël retired! Must be his back playing up again. I'll text him later, maybe we can have lunch before he leaves. Ah, poor Gaël, that really sucks for him.”

"And if you get through Jo?" Stan prompts.

"Um... Cilic, Dimitrov or Ferrer, most likely. I don't think I need worry about who I might play in the quarter finals of the US Open  _just_  yet, though.” He reaches across Stan for another pastry. “Seems a shame to waste these; they're too good. Want one?”

Stan shakes his head.

“What time's your match?" Benoît asks, through a mouthful of croissant.

"Not before five."

"And what time's the Murray match?"

"Seven."

" _Allez_ , Andy," mutters Benoît, with feeling.

"No  _allezs_  for Stan?" asks Stan, sounding amused.

"You don't need my  _allezs_. You'll thrash him."

"I think I'd still like them, though."

" _Allez_ , Stanley," Benoît grins, “ _Allez, allez, allez_ …”

He punctuates each “Allez” with a big wet kiss planted on Stan's cheek.

Stan wipes pastry crumbs from his face in disgust. “Could you at least finish your breakfast first?”

Benoît affects outrage. “Well, that's nice! And after I beat Nishikori for you, too."

Stan looks sceptical. “For  _me?_ ”

“Of course. He'll lose a shitload of ranking points now. You'll be back to number 4.  _And_  you'll be above him in the race to London."

"Well, that depends how  _I_ play, of course... Maybe I'll be the next top ten seed knocked out by a gorgeous unseeded Frenchman..." 

"Have you  _got_  any gorgeous unseeded Frenchmen in your draw? I don't like the sound of this."

Stan pretends to consider. "Hmm, not sure... Mannarino, I think?"

"Pshh, Adrian's only an honorary Frenchman, he doesn't count."

"I'm sure there's someone else... is Nico in my half of the draw?"

"Ha ha ha! No. Nope. I have nothing to fear.“

“What's wrong with Nico?”

“Nothing's wrong with Nico. I just don't feel he's a threat, that's all. I mean, is  _Nico_  on the front cover of  _L'Equipe_?”

Stan appeals silently to the heavens. “Oh, god, you're going to be  _unbearable_ , aren't you?”

Benoît laughs. “Oh, come on, at least let me enjoy it for  _one_  day!”

“Fine,” Stan smiles. “You've earned it. You were  _amazing_  yesterday. I shouted myself absolutely hoarse during that last set.”

A warm flush of pride spreads through Benoît's chest. For once, he doesn't have a snappy reply. He swallows back the lump in his throat. “Well... I... thanks.“

“And speaking of things you've earned...”

Benoît turns his head to hear exactly what it is he has earned, but Stan is already disappearing beneath the sheets.

Benoît reaches back to brace himself against the headboard as Stan begins to lap enthusiastically at his cock like it's a delicious, but rapidly melting ice-cream on a hot day.

“ _Allez!”_ he gasps, and Stan laughs, and does.

 

====================

 

Benoît is in the players' canteen, watching on the big screen as more of his friends get taken out; by unseeded players this time, rather than injuries. Yesterday he was the one celebrating a big upset, now he has to watch as Gilles (seeded 11) crashes out in the first round to 68-ranked Donald Young, and Richie (seeded 12) loses the first set to 71-ranked Australian teen Thanasi Kokkinakis (or Friend of Fuckface, as Benoît likes to call him). Benoît has always had a bit of a soft spot for Richie, partly because he's so obviously holding the door tightly shut from the inside of his own personal closet, but also because he's had such a hard time from the French press for his supposed problems with nerves. Benoît's had his fair share of shit from the press on that front too; he can empathise.

Richie comes back to take the second set 6-1 (nerves, what nerves?), but then promptly loses the third set 4-6. Benoît swears so loudly that a couple of Eastern Europeans at the next table both jump. Nobody would have expected that by halfway through the second day at Flushing Meadows, 41-ranked Benoît would still be here, but top twenty players Gaël, Gilles - and at this rate, quite possibly Richie too - would all be out of the tournament. It is a massacre of Frenchmen. A Waterloo, except not by the English this time, since they don't have any good tennis players,  _ha!_

At least Edouard is likely to be here until the weekend, as the doubles matches don't even start until tomorrow. Benoît rather regrets his decision to sign up for doubles, now that he's played so much better than he could ever have dreamed in the main draw. And Stan will still be here too, of course, unless something goes very badly wrong. This time yesterday, Benoît would have said there was absolutely no way he'd be in this tournament longer than Stan, and it's still 99% unlikely, but he knows how affected Stan has been mentally by recent events, and neither of them - although they have not said as much aloud, even to each other - expect Stan to win his third slam here, not this time. However much Stan tries to stay positive in interviews, Benoît knows very well that Stan's head isn't in the right place to win right now. It would be amazing if he could, though; a giant fuck-you to the press, the public, Fuckface,  _everyone_.

Benoît's attention is drawn back to the Gasquet-Friend of Fuckface match, where - luckily for Richie - the kid has been seized by a bout of cramps, and can barely move. Richie wins the fourth set 6-3 to level the match at two sets all. Benoît is pleased for him, of course, but he can't help feeling a tiny bit sorry for Kokkinakis, who after all, has had his name dragged through the mud by his so-called friend too. He's clearly suffering, and doesn't look like he's going to make it to the end of the fifth set at this rate.

Benoît has ATP alerts set up on his phone. When it buzzes, he pulls it out of his pocket and glances at it briefly, not wanting to take his eyes off Richie's match. Shit, Gulbis has retired! Gulbis was in Stan's quarter, and might have proved a difficult obstacle for him later on. Good news for Stan, at least. He looks back to the TV screen, and is briefly outraged that someone appears to have changed the channel, but no, it's all over. Kokkinakis has retired, 2-0 down in the fifth set. He texts congratulations to Richie, then checks the time, suddenly realising that it's less than an hour to Stan's match. Stan picks up the phone straight away.

"Hey."

"Hey. Where are you?"

"Locker room, waiting to go on. Where are you?"

"Just finished watching Richie's match."

"Did he win?"

“ _Yeaaaahh..._ "

"What? He  _lost?_ "

"No, no, he won.  _Just_. I'll explain later. Gilles is out, though."

" _Gilles is out?!_ "

"I'll come over. Be there in five."

"OK, see you soon."

He's on his way when his phone buzzes again with a text from Stan:

_Vika's match just finished. Definitely be on at 5._

_On my way_  Benoît texts back, and speeds his steps.

He won't be able to watch the whole match because he's got doubles practice with Darcis and a couple of Ukrainians. He suspects Lionel deliberately scheduled it for during Stan's match, so he wouldn't get distracted and overexcited, just as Magnus did for Stan yesterday. Talk of the devil, his phone rings again and it actually  _is_  Lionel, who always calls rather than texts, not because he's old, just because he worked out that Benoît found it much harder to pretend not to have received a phone call than a text.

"Don't forget you have practice in half an hour," says Lionel, without any preamble whatsoever. 

"I know, I know, I'm on my way there now!" (which he is, it's not a lie, he's just going via the locker room to see Stan first, that's all.)

"Good, so you will be there in twenty minutes?"

"Yeah, yeah. Twenty minutes. See you there."

Benoît walks past Kokkinakis lying on his back on the floor and sobbing while a physio tries to get the cramp out of his legs, and gives a quick smile and a thumbs-up to Richie, who is on his way into the showers. He doesn't stop to talk to him though, there isn't time. He's intent on finding Stan.

Stan is engrossed in his phone, as usual. Magnus is there too, watching a women's doubles match on the television in the corner. Benoît sits down beside Stan on the bench and gives his knee a quick squeeze, first checking that there's no-one else around to see. (Magnus doesn’t count; he knows already. That doesn’t mean they can go full tongues in front of him, mind, just that they don’t have to pretend they’re just good friends and nothing more. Lionel knows too, because Benoît has known him a long time and has no secrets from him, and also because Lionel is not an idiot. A coach is a mentor, trainer, psychiatrist, friend, father figure, teacher, and sometimes confessor, all rolled into one. If Benoît ever wins a slam, he plans to dedicate it to Lionel, just as Stan did for Magnus when he won Roland Garros. Without Lionel, he would have given up a long time ago, he's sure of that.)

“So this humidity's really causing havoc,” he says aloud. “Two withdrawals from the heat today already.”

“Not Gilles?!”

“No; Gulbis, and Kokkinakis. He's in the next room rolling about on the floor.”

“Oh," says Stan, profoundly unbothered by this news, "I wondered what all the noise was.”

Benoît raises an eyebrow. “Didn't think to go and see?”

Stan shrugs, and laughs. “I'm trying to be  _in the zone_ , aren't I? Anyway, Magnus went to check, so I knew no-one was actually dead.”

Magnus glances up briefly at the mention of his name. He doesn't speak French, which is handy because they can have private conversations in his presence if they need to. Similarly useful is Lionel's inability to speak any English, although in that case it becomes much more obvious they are saying something they specifically don't want Lionel to hear.

“Sooo...” teases Stan, “Come down off your cloud yet?”

Benoît laughs. “Not yet! Ask me again after my match tomorrow.”

“Oh, you'll be fine. You'll beat him easily. I bet he's quaking in his boots now he's seen you take out Nishikori.”

It's true that success in tennis is very largely dependent on confidence. Benoît was 100% certain he was going to lose his match yesterday, but now, if he draws Nishikori again, he knows he can beat him. And what's more, Nishikori knows that too. Similarly, Stan knows that he's one of the very few players that can beat Djokovic in a slam final, because he's already done it. You're walking on court with the knowledge that you  _can_  win, and in a sport like tennis, which is as much a mental game as a physical one, that can make all the difference in the world.

“How about you? Nervous about your first match?”

Stan shrugs. “Always a little.”

Benoît glances at his watch. "I've got to go, I'm meeting Lionel." He gets to his feet. "Good luck."

Stan gets to his feet too, and his fingers briefly brush Benoît's. “Thanks. See you later.”

One of the many excellent things about being French is that no-one bats an eyelid if Benoît kisses Stan on the cheek, as long as he does it at least twice, which he is very,  _very_  happy to do.

“Love you,” he whispers in Stan's ear, and is rewarded with a slightly nervous smile ( _everyone_ knows what “Je t'aime” means, no matter how little French they speak).

As he's leaving, Benoît stops at the door, turns, and flashes Stan one of his finest and filthiest grins.

“ _Allez, allez, allez!”_

Stan's laughter is still ringing in his ears as he walks away.

 

====================

 

Benoît is twenty minutes into practice when Lionel calls them over to say that tomorrow's schedule has been announced. Benoît's match against Ilhan is third up on Court no 4, so about 3pm, depending on whether Jeremy, who's on first, takes it to five sets or beats Klizan in three.

Nico & Pierre, and Edouard & Nestor are all playing tomorrow. His first doubles match won't be until Thursday, then. That's something. At least he won't have to play two matches in one day, unlike poor Jeremy, he notices, scrolling further down the draws. He and Stan will be playing on the same day, although not, of course, on the same court. No more playing on the show courts for Benoît, now he's not playing against top five seeds.

"Right!" he announces purposefully, clapping Darcis on the back, "Let's get back to work!"

Benoît gets off practice just after seven and is checking his phone to see how Stan's doing before he's even walked off court. Stan won the first set 7-5 - shit, that was a bit close for comfort - and the second 6-4, and now he's 4-3 up in the third. He really should be doing better than this against the Spaniard, who is ranked 50-something in the world. Stan is number 5. He's basically ten times better than his opponent. 

 _And you're no 41 and Nishikori's no 4, so he's ten times better than you, and you still beat him_ , the little voice in Benoît's head reminds him.

He's about ready for dinner, but he'll wait a while, see if Stan can close out this match in three straight sets, then they can go to dinner together, after Stan has a shower and physio and press.

Damn it, 4-4 now. Come _on_ , Stanley! Stan wins his service game before Benoît can even blink. 5-4, and the Spaniard to serve. If Stan can break him now he can win the match. Benoît is standing rooted to the spot at the side of the court, he hasn't moved any further. Lionel comes over to talk to him, but he's watching the numbers on the little screen and doesn't hear. 5-5.  _Damn it._

_"Benoît!"_

He glances up. "Eh?"

Lionel looks exasperated. "I said, do you want to get dinner? We need to talk about your plan for the match tomorrow.

"Yeah, yeah, I just - Stan's just -"

Getting broken on his service game, and now it's 5-6 and Ramos-Vinolas is one game away from winning this set and taking it to a fourth.

Benoît's live score app tells him that the Murray-Fuckface match has just started. Suddenly he couldn't give the slightest fuck whether Murray beats Kyrgios or not, he just wants Stan to win. That's the only thing that matters. He closed his eyes, and prays to the tennis gods.  _Please_. Stan's had a bad enough time of it lately; don't let him get beaten in the first round of the US Open. 

Stan breaks back, and takes it to a tiebreak. Benoît hates tiebreaks, but he thanks the tennis gods for giving Stan another chance.

"Sorry, Lio," he says aloud, "Tiebreak for the match. Can't talk."

He watches the numbers, hardly daring to blink.

1-0 to Stan. Good start.

2-0.

2-1. Aargh! 

3-1. Yes! 

4-1

That's it, Stan, nearly there, nearly -

4-2

4-3

_Fuck!_

5-3

Yes!

5-4

No!

5-5 

Nooooo!

6-5. OK. Just one more. One more point, that's all.

6-6. Shit! OK. Just two more points.

7-6. 

Benoît holds his breath, waiting for the little numbers to change. “Come on, come on...”

8-6.

He punches the air.  _"Yes!"_

That was  _much_  too close for comfort. Magnus is going to give Stan hell. Stan is going to give himself hell, too.

Benoît checks his watch. By the time Stan gets away, it's going to be gone 9 o'clock, probably more like 9.30, and Benoît can't wait that long for food. He texts Stan an emoji sandwich - a thumbs-up, a smiley face and a love heart - then throws an arm around Lionel's shoulder, relaxed and happy again.

“So, shall we get that dinner? How about pizza?”

Lionel splutters in protest. “You have a  _match_  tomorrow -”

“I know, I know, I was joking! Honestly, your face. Although there's a nice little Italian near the hotel that has the most amazing -”

"Actually," Lionel interrupts, “I was thinking more of a  _working_  dinner. I've got some videos of Ilhan's matches I want you to watch. We can go back to my hotel and order room service."

Benoît groans. As far as he is concerned, the words _working_ and _dinner_ should not even be in the same sentence.  _"Fine."_

 

==============================

 

It's nearly ten when Benoît gets back to his own hotel (Lionel is staying in a different hotel, three blocks away. This is because Stan's paying for the room he shares with Benoît, while Benoît is paying for Lionel's. It's a perfectly nice hotel, it's not the YMCA, but neither is it  _this_  hotel, with its rooftop bar, panoramic view of Central Park and monogrammed pillowcases).

The room is dark and Stan's not here yet. Must have gone for a late dinner. Benoît sinks down onto the sofa, kicks off his shoes, and quickly texts Stan:

_Hey where r u?_

_At hotel,_ Stan replies, almost instantly.

_No ur not!_

"I'm right behind you," Stan says aloud, and Benoît whirls around at the sound of his voice.

Stan looks tired. He drops his gear bags on the floor and flops down on the sofa beside Benoît, closing his eyes in thankfulness and letting his head fall onto Benoît's shoulder. Benoît slides an arm around him. He doesn't say congratulations. He knows Stan won't feel he deserved it.

"Have you eaten?" he asks, eventually.

"Not yet."

"Shall I order you something from room service? Some pasta or something?"

"Mm," says Stan, eyes still closed. 

"Was that a yes?"

"Not yet," murmurs Stan. "Just..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. Benoît leans his head against Stan's, and Stan rests his hand on Benoît's thigh, and they sit for a while in companionable silence, until Stan remembers that Benoît has an early match tomorrow so should be going to bed, and that sounds like a pretty good idea all round.

“You know, you really should eat something,” Benoît tells him, sternly.

“I'm fine. I'll just have an energy bar or something.”

“Yeah, I was thinking more  _actual food_.”

Stan stifles a yawn. “Honestly, I'm fine. I just want to sleep.”

“What about a sandwich? If you ordered it now, you could be eating it in ten minutes.”

Stan shakes his head. “I could be  _asleep_  in ten minutes. Actually, I don't think I'd even need that long.”

Benoît gets to his feet and rummages in his kit bag, tossing Stan a slightly bruised banana, which he catches deftly. No matter how tired he is, he's still a tennis player, and his reflexes are very fast indeed.

“Thanks,” he says, gratefully.

“You're welcome,” Benoît smiles back. “Gotta keep your strength up.”

“I've got a day off tomorrow. Plenty of time to recover before the next match.”

Benoît wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “That's not exactly what I meant.”

Stan chokes on his banana.

 

=====================

 

Benoît is sitting up in bed, waiting for Stan to finish in the bathroom and join him. He sets the alarm on his phone for 8am and quickly checks his emails, Twitter and Facebook, and scrolls through his live score alerts. Nico is through - in three straight sets over Querrey, and every one a tiebreaker, Christ! Nico's nerves must be shredded! Oh, and Adrian Mannarino is through too - but not for long, since he plays Murray next. Mind you, Benoît is playing against Adrian & Fabrice Martin on Thursday in his first dubs match, so he won't be  _too_  devastated if Adrian has to come back on court mere hours after being trounced by Andy Murray.

Oh! That means Murray beat Kyrgios. Excellent. Not that it was ever in any doubt, but if his own experience this week has proved anything, it's that upsets can happen from any quarter. He texts his friends quick congratulations and commiserations, then looks up as Stan emerges from the bathroom, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

"Murray's through," Benoît tells him, gleefully.

Stan nods, and climbs wearily into bed beside him. "Well, that's not a surprise, is it?"

Benoît waits a beat, then realises Stan is so tired he has forgotten what that means. "Which means Fuckface is out," he reminds him, grinning.

Stan manages a small smile. "Well, that's something.”

"More than something! We won't have to see his ugly face anymore. He'll be on the first plane back to Australia."

"He's still in mixed dubs," points out Stan, yawning again. 

"Shit. I was hoping we'd get a month off from the drama."

Stan doesn't say anything, just settles into bed.

Benoît gets the hint and turns off his phone, then the bedside light, and cuddles up to Stan's warm, solid body.

"They asked me about him in my presser again," Stan mumbles, into his shoulder.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

"It's like I've gone from always being asked about Roger, to always being asked about... him."

Benoît wonders if, one day, they might ask Stan about  _him_  instead, but he doesn't say it aloud.

"New rule," he says instead, "Let's not talk about Fuckface in bed. It's bad enough I have to see his ugly face around the courts, I don't want him in bed with us as well."

He can feel Stan laughing silently, and smiles.

"Fine. Let's not talk at all." Stan finds Benoît's mouth in the dark with his own, and demonstrates exactly how that might work.

"Just to check," Benoît asks, after a minute, "You don't mean, let's never talk in bed again, right?”

“No,” Stan mumbles, irked that Benoît has stopped kissing him, “Just not about Kyrgios.”

“ _Bzzz!”_

“What?”

“ _Bzzz!_  I'm being a buzzer. You broke the rule; you mentioned K – him – in bed!”

Stan groans. “Yeah, but only because – oh, never mind.”

“No,  _not_  never mind. We  _agreed_. We agreed this new rule, not even  _ten seconds_  ago. How would it be if everyone went around breaking the rules all the time? It would be anarchy!”

Stan makes a noise of frustration. “Ben...”

“I mean, you're Swiss, you should understand the need for rules. Where would Switzerland be without rules? I tell you where - France!”

“I'm going to sleep.”

Stan turns over, and thumps the pillow a couple of times to get comfortable. He's not really annoyed though, because after a minute he snuggles back against Benoît, and wraps Benoît's arm around himself.

Benoît waits until he can hear Stan's breathing levelling off, then says, stifling a laugh, "You know, if there was a revolution now, they’d probably chop off your head for having your own swimming pool. Even if it is - as far as the taxman is concerned - strictly for training purposes.”

“If there was a revolution  _now_ ,” mumbles Stan (because if you can’t beat ‘em…), “You’d be convicted by your own Instagram photos. It looks like all you do is eat, drink, and lie around on the beach all day showing off your tan.”

“Pah! No-one would chop  _this_  head off. Look at it.”

“I  _can’t_  look at it. It’s dark.”

Benoît can't argue with that. Although that's never stopped him before. He opens his mouth, takes a deep breath, and -

“Good _night_ , Ben.”

Benoît can hear the smile in Stan's voice. It's at times like these, when they're alone in their bed, not even _doing_ anything, just talking and laughing about nothing, that he feels closest to Stan. In the darkness, with their arms around each other, all the stresses of their daily lives are forgotten. They could be anyone, or no-one. It's easy to imagine still having these silly conversations in ten years, twenty, thirty... Benoît will probably be on to his fourth set of replacement knees by then. He tightens the embrace and threads his fingers through Stan's.

“Good night.”

 

* * *

 **Day 7: Wednesday 2nd September 2015**  

_**M. Ilhan (TUR) vs. B. Paire (FRA)** _

Benoît is supposed to be meeting Lionel in reception, but he's waiting for Stan to get out of the shower first, because they might not see each other again before Benoît's match this afternoon. He checks the overnight results on his phone while he waits. In his half of the draw, Jo, Jeremy and himself are the only Frenchmen left standing. In the other half it's Richie, Adrian (but not for long, as he plays Murray next) and Nico.

Benoît's spectacular win on Monday is old news now. Things move fast at a slam. The tally of players who have pulled out due to injury is mounting by the hour, there have been a couple more giant-killings by low-ranking minnows (though none as big a scalp as Nishikori, he notes, smugly), and the 31 degree heat and humidity are playing havoc too, with several more players suffering cramp or heatstroke and having to retire mid-match. The last thing Lionel told him last night was to "stay hydrated" and he's already texted him this morning with the same message. Benoît has drunk three glasses of Lionel's special sports supplement drink since he woke up half an hour ago, and already needs another piss. He had to forgo his morning coffee as it's a diuretic, and that hasn't helped his mood either. The sports drink is no substitute for coffee. It's an unappetising pink colour and has an odd metallic taste, like rusty water. Still, the memory of seeing Kokkinakis lying on the floor sobbing with cramps yesterday provides enough reason to keep chugging the stuff down.

Stan's more cheerful this morning. He's always better for a good night's sleep. It's probably also because, even if it wasn't an easy win last night, he  _did_  win. Hopefully now he's got the first match under his belt, he'll have hit his stride and play much better for his second round match tomorrow. Benoît checks to see who Stan will be playing next. Ugh, Chung; the Korean who beat Benoît pretty comprehensively in Winston-Salem last week. He shouldn't be a problem for Stan, though.

Plus of course, Stan has a day off. Well, there's no such thing as a day off at a slam; he'll have practice and press and research to do on his next opponent, and more practice, and litres of rusty pink water to drink. No doubt Magnus will have some special training programme for humidity too.

Benoît hears the water turn off in the bathroom, and feels the familiar match day butterflies churning in his stomach, knowing he has to leave soon. On paper he should beat Ilhan easily, but then on paper he should have lost to Nishikori, so clearly, nobody knows anything, especially in tennis. One break point against you at the wrong moment can lead to you losing the game, then you can't catch up and suddenly you're one set down. Frustration causes you make stupid errors (or smash your racket and get a code violation, Benoît's personal speciality), and before you know it suddenly your opponent is serving for the match, and you're on the next plane home. For want of a nail...

Benoît has never played Ilhan before, so he's something of an unknown entity. Youtube highlights videos are no substitute for actual experience. Stan played him in the early rounds at Roland Garros this year and beat him, but a) Benoît is not Stan, and b) no-one could have beaten Stan in Paris, such was the incredible level he was playing at en route to his second slam trophy. Not Federer, not Djokovic, and certainly not world number eighty-whatever Marsel Ilhan. If Novak wins here in New York, as absolutely everyone seems to assume he will, Stan's win in Paris will have been the only thing stopping him from achieving both the career  _and_  the calendar slam. Ha!

His phone rings and he gets his excuse in quick before Lionel can even speak. "I know, I know, I'll be five minutes! Yes, actually five minutes. I'm basically ready. No, don't come upstairs, I'm almost out of the door."

Stan emerges from the bathroom, rubbing his damp hair with a small towel, and with another, only slightly larger towel tied around his waist.

“Who was that?”

“Lio. He's waiting for me downstairs. I just wanted to say goodbye first.”

Stan smiles, and comes over to press his warm, damp body against Benoît and give him a good luck kiss.

Benoît has to physically restrain himself from removing that towel.

“Good luck,” Stan tells him, against his lips. “Not that you need it, when you've just beaten the world number four...”

“I'll take it anyway,” Benoît grins. “You seem perky. Have fun in the shower?”

Stan shoves him away. “I've got a day off, haven't I? Also, I've got a Skype session with Alexia in an hour, so...”

He shrugs, happily.

“Oh, cool. Say hi to her from me.”

“I will.”

Benoît reaches down for his bags and hauls them over his shoulder. “You know, you should save that towel and throw it into the crowd after the match.”

Stan looks appalled. “ _Kids_ sometimes catch the towels, Ben.”

“Not that one. I'd push them out of the way to make sure I caught it.” He mimes shoving a child to the floor, and Stan laughs and shakes his head.

“You don't need the towel. You can have what's under it any time you like.”

Benoît pretends to check his watch. “ _Any_ time?”

“Any time when you don't have a tennis match to win.”

Benoît laughs. “And what will I get if I win?”

“A place in the third round,” replies Stan, dryly. “Now _go_ , before Lio turns up wondering where you are.”

 

======================

 

Benoît is sitting in the locker room waiting to be called on court. The back of his head is resting against the cool wood-panelled locker and his eyes are closed, trying to block out out the noise. The locker room is not usually this crazy on match days, but Mardy Fish has just come off court after the last ever match of his career before retirement, having missed three years due to crippling anxiety disorder, and of course _everyone_ wants to say a few words and give him a big hug. Benoît would like to as well, but at the moment he can't get near him, and anyway, he's going to be on court himself in only a few minutes. He just needs to sit here quietly and stay calm.

It's twenty past three when Benoît finally gets on court. Stepping from the air-conditioned locker room to the 30-degree mid-afternoon heat is like walking onto the surface of the sun. He is already drenched in sweat by the time he reaches his bench and sits down, and all he's done is walk forty feet across the court. The on-court speakers blare out Billy Idol's _Hot In The City_ , and he shakes his head. “This isn't helping, guys...” he mutters, reaching for a towel to wipe the sweat from his eyes. It's going to see plenty of action today, that's for sure. He remembers Stan in his towel from earlier, and bites back a smile. Well, _that's_ certainly not going to help him cool down.

The first set goes according to serve until the fourth game, when Benoît breaks to go 3-1 up. The next game is a battle, and it seems like Ilhan is going to break him right back, but Benoît manages to save the break point and get it to 4-1, and after that everything goes according to serve once more. Benoît wins the first set, 6-3.

In the second set he gets broken in his very first service game, and suddenly Ilhan is up 0-2, and Benoît is under pressure. He makes several attempts to break back in the third game, but eventually Ilhan gets the advantage, and goes three games up. Benoît swears out loud and gets a glare, but fortunately nothing worse, from the umpire. He gives himself a stern mental talking to instead. Can't afford to get docked any points, not at 0-3 down.

Finally, he manages to hold a service game. 1-3 is better than 0-3, but this is the moment he needs to break, or it'll go to 1-4 and he's going to lose this set. He really doesn't want to play another four or five setter, not in this heat.

It goes to 1-4.

Benoît wins his service game, but so does Ilhan. 2-5 now. Ilhan only needs to win one more game and it'll be one set all. There's not much more frustrating in tennis than playing your arse off for an hour and be no further ahead than you were at the start. Ilhan breaks again to win the game, and with it the set. They literally are back to where they started, with the score at 6-3, 3-6.

At the changeover, he sits and stares into space, at a loss as to what to do next. He's throwing everything at this, and nothing's working. It doesn't help that, every time he wipes his brow, fresh sweat instantly forms, or that he's got the refrain from that stupid song going round and round his brain.

“ _Hot in the city, hot in the city tonight...”_

The umpire calls “Time”. Benoît steels himself for a moment, then leaps to his feet. _Come_ on, Paire. You can do this. You just beat Nishikori, FFS. Come _on!_

The third set starts with Benoît's service game, so he's at an advantage straight off. He nearly breaks Ilhan's serve three times, but can only convert one break point. Still, he's finally in front.

“ _Allez!”_ he roars, and the crowd roars back their approval.

3-2, and Benoît to serve next. If he can hold serve here, he can take it to 4-2, then to 5-3, and from there he'd only need to win one more game to take the set, but Ilhan would need to win four. All he needs to do is hold serve.

Ilhan breaks right back.

One set all and 3-3 in the third set now, and it might as well be 0-0. Fuck.  _Fuck_. He cannot knock out the world no 4 and then get beaten by the world no 84. He  _cannot_.

Benoît wins his next service game, but so does Ilhan. 4-4.

If he doesn't break Ilhan soon, this is going to a tie-break, and Benoît really,  _really_  hates tie-breaks. He grips his racket tighter to restrain himself from hurling the traitorous thing across the court. 

Benoît holds serve. 5-4.

OK, he tells himself, sternly. Now's the time to break, Paire. Now would be awesome.

The next game is agonising, both of them struggling for every point, knowing that the outcome will change the course of the match. Finally, though, he gets a set point, and this time a piece of luck - Ilhan makes an unforced error and gives Benoît the set.

He's a lot less stressed in the fourth - being two sets to one up will do that for your confidence. Ilhan needs to win the next two sets to win the match; Benoît only needs to win one. He breaks Ilhan twice, and breezes to 5-2. Ilhan wins his service game to make it 5-3, but unless Benoît really fucks it up now - and let's face it, that's still possible - he's going to win this match and be in the third round of the US Open for the first time ever. His momentarily lapse of concentration at this prospect is enough for him to make a stupid error, but he wins the next point with an ace, and the next one with a backhand winner almost worthy of Stan himself, and now he has match point. Ilhan hits it into the net.

Benoît's celebration is not quite as enthusiastic as when he beat Nishikori on Monday - then he felt like he'd actually won the trophy, today he feels mostly just relief. He is in the third round of the US Open. Next, Groth or Robredo. Of course, it will be Robredo. There's a terrible inevitability about it.

If he can get through Robredo, then he'll most likely be facing Jo, one of his best friends, but he can't think about that now. Tonight, he gets to celebrate with his boyfriend, the underwear model. The thought of Stan's embarrassment at that epithet makes him smile almost as much as winning the match.

Stan rings to congratulate Benoît and invite him out to dinner, which he happily accepts. It's only half five, so even by the time he gets through with all the post-match routine, they can enjoy a proper, sit-down meal together, at an actual restaurant, and Stan can still get an early night for his match tomorrow.

Stan brings the next day's schedule, with the relevant matches helpfully highlighted. Stan's match against Chung is scheduled second on Armstrong, so he'll be on about 1pm. That's good, nice and early; although he will be playing in the midday heat, which is not so good. Even if it goes to five sets - which of course Benoît hopes fervently doesn't happen, Stan could do with an easy match - they should be able to have dinner together tomorrow as well. The next thing Benoît notices is that his doubles partner Steve Darcis is playing Roger Federer in the night session, at 7pm, which must mean they have an early doubles match tomorrow... except... hang on...

"Stan," he says weakly, "It's been quite a tiring day, so it's possible I'm hallucinating, but am I not playing tomorrow?"

Stan smiles, and shakes his head. "You are not."

"Huh. I thought I had a doubles match."

"Well, you don't. You have a day off."

"Why did I think I had a match?"

"I don't know!" laughs Stan. "Just be pleased you don't."

Benoît sighs. He  _should_  be pleased, but... "Do you think we'll ever have a day off at the same time?"

"Well, I guess we will if we both  _lose_..."

"I haven't forgotten you still owe me that sex from Monday, you know."

"I haven't forgotten, either," says Stan, with a strength of feeling that goes straight to Benoît's groin.

But then Benoît remembers, "Shit! That means I'll be playing two matches on Friday instead! I'll probably just fall asleep before we can do anything.  _Again_..."

"Why did you sign up for dubs, anyway?

"I don't know!" wails Benoît, "If I'd known it was going to get in the way of my sex life, I obviously wouldn't have done it!”

Stan laughs. “You know, if you were worried about work getting in the way of your sex life, tennis probably wasn't the right career for you.”

Benoît laughs too. “Oh,  _now_  he tells me...”

 

* * *

**Day 8: Thursday 3rd September 2015**

_**H. Chung (KOR) vs. S. Wawrinka (SUI)** _

"Robredo's though," Stan tells Benoît, as the latter emerges from the shower in a hotel bathrobe.

"Of course," says Benoît, with a resigned sigh. "I knew he would be. How did Edouard do?"

Stan checks. "6-4, 6-4. Through easy. Oh, and Chardy's through in dubs too, but he's playing Edouard and Daniel Nestor next."

"Nico and Pierre?"

"Through. 6-3, 6-4.  _Shit!_ "

Benoît stops towelling his hair. "What?"

"The Bryans are out! In the first round! I think that's unheard of.  _And_ Dodig and Melo. That's the one and two dubs seeds out in round one!"

"This tournament is crazy," says Benoît, shaking his head. "Good for Edouard, though. He's gotta think he has a real chance now. Not that he'd ever say as much, he is the most modest man in the  _world_. Any other upsets?"

"Dimitrov's out. Not  _that_  surprising, he's had a rough time lately. Wasn't he one of your prospective opponents if you make the quarters?"

He was, but the quarter finals are not something Benoît has to worry about any time soon, if ever. Dimitrov recently split up with his girlfriend, professional glamorous blonde and international tennis megastar Maria Sharapova, so his private life has been all over the press. Just like Stan's. Benoît watches Stan for his reaction, but he's too absorbed in the tennis news.

"Says here the last time the Bryans went a year without winning a slam was  _2005_. Fuck! They're machines!"

"In 2005," Benoît reminds him, "I was  _sixteen_. Fifteen for the first four months."

"Yeah, alright. You are a baby. Don't rub it in."

Benoît laughs. "What were you doing in 2005?"

Stan thinks. "Well, it was the year I met Ilham, of course. Also the year I broke into the top hundred for the first time. "

Benoît flashes open the robe in Stan's direction and wiggles his eyebrows. "But more importantly, it was the year I lost my virginity."

Stan laughs, and covers his eyes. "Put that away, for god's sake. I've got practice in half an hour, I don't need the distraction."

“There are  _lots_  of things we can do in half an hour, Stanley.”

Stan's phone buzzes on the bedside table, and he glances at it briefly. “I'm sure. But can we do them in a taxi, because there's a car downstairs waiting to pick me up?”

“ _Yes,”_ Benoît says eagerly. “Yes, we can _definitely_ do them in a taxi.”

Stan just laughs. “See you later, yeah?”

Benoît gives an exaggerated sigh. “ _Fine_.” He makes a show of pulling on his underpants. “I'm putting it away.”

Stan closes down his laptop and reaches across to unplug his phone from the charger. "Thank you."

“Good luck today,” Benoît tells him. “Hope it's not too hot out there.”

“Thanks. I hope so, too.”

“And make sure you're drinking lots of water. You don't want to get cramps."

Stan rolls his eyes. "Yeah, thanks, Magnus."

"Did you  _see_  Kokkinakis rolling around on the floor the other night?"

"I've been playing tennis longer than he's been _alive_ ," Stan points out, impatiently. "I think I know how to handle this kind of humidity by now."

"Glad to hear it. Because if I have to watch  _you_  going through that, I am never going to let you forget it."

Stan looks a bit sheepish. "OK, OK, I'll make sure I drink lots of water. Sorry."

He gets to his feet and comes over to Benoît, sliding his arms around him and burying his face in Benoît's warm, bare back. "Sorry," he says again.

"Arsehole," says Benoît, affectionately.

“Fuckhead,” says Stan. He plants a kiss between Benoît's shoulder blades. “I should go.”

Benoît twists around to face him and claim a proper kiss.

“Must you?” he cajoles, pulling Stan closer, “Can't you call Magnus and tell him you can't deal with the incredible hotness?”

“Well -”

“... of your boyfriend?”

Stan laughs, and extricates himself from Benoît's arms."Oh, _Ben_. Being able to deal with your incredible hotness is part of Magnus' training, didn't you know?”

 

===================

 

Benoît goes for a late lunch with Edouard, but he's jittery knowing that Stan's playing his second-round match  _right now_. Halfway through lunch, Edouard, looking a little amused, tells him, “You can check the scores, you know, I won't mind.”

“No, no, I'm having lunch with you. It would be rude.”

“Check the scores, idiot.”

He doesn't need telling twice. Stan is 7-6, 7-6, 6-5 up in the third set.  _Christ_ , that's close. Too close. A couple of points either way and Stan could be about to lose in three straight sets. The score changes to 6-6 as he watches. Of  _course_. Three tiebreaks in a row. Stan's nerves must be shredded. Benoît's certainly would be. Fortunately, Stan is much better at tiebreaks than Benoît.

“Third set tiebreak,” he explains to Edouard, putting the phone on the table between them so they can both watch the score change.

First point to Stan. 1-0.

Chung evens it up. 1-1.

2-1 to Stan.

2-2.

4-2 suddenly.

“Come on, Stan,” he mutters under his breath, “You can do it.”

4-3.

4-4. _Damnit!_

5-4.

 _Allez_ , Stanley, nearly there. But no, Chung evens it up to 5-5, then immediately goes 5-6 up.

 _"Fuck!"_ Benoît shouts. "Sorry, Edouard."

Edouard laughs. "No, no, that's worth a fuck."

Stan gets it to 6-6, and they both breathe sighs of relief.

"This is agony," Benoît mutters. “Come on, Stan, you can do it.”

But it's Chung's serve now - the screen goes momentarily blank and Benoît swears out loud, but then it flashes up the final score, with a little green tick by Stan's name. Stan wins, 7-6, 7-6, 7-6. My god, that's close. A couple of points the other way, and he could be on his way home. Stan will be furious with himself. Benoît texts him quickly so the message will be waiting for him when he gets off court. No smiley this time, Stan won't be feeling very smiley. It's hard to know what to say when someone wins badly, though. He types and deletes four different versions before settling on,  _Are you trying to kill me with all these tiebreaks? It's lucky you're so good in bed!_ :D and presses send before he can change his mind.

He's putting his phone away when a horrified  _"Shit!"_  from Edouard makes him look up. Edouard has taken the opportunity to check some other scores on his own phone.

Benoît raises a quizzical eyebrow.

"Another retirement from the heat," Edouard tells him.

Benoît shakes his head in disbelief. "They're dropping like flies!" he chuckles. "Who is it this time?"

"Jack Sock. Says here he started cramping in the third set, then fainted in the fourth and had to be carried off in a wheelchair."

"Shit!" exclaims Benoît. Suddenly, there's nothing funny about it at all. "Poor guy."

"Thank god dubs players only have to play two sets and a tiebreak," Edouard says, with feeling.

Benoît fervently agrees, especially as tomorrow he has to play two matches, one in singles and one in doubles. This tournament is certainly sorting out the guys with real stamina from everyone else. He hopes Stan will be OK; stamina is certainly not something his boyfriend lacks. Maybe all those matches Benoît has played this year, trying to claw his way back into the top hundred, top fifty, top forty, maybe this is where all that hard work finally pays off. Oh, wait -

"Who was he playing?"

"Who?"

"Sock. Who was he playing?"

"Uh... Bemelmans. Belgian. Ranked 107. Why?"

Benoît has already pulled out his phone and started texting. "Because Stan was supposed to be playing Sock next. Would have been a pretty difficult match. And now he's playing a Belgian ranked in the 100s."

Stan rings him back ten minutes later, just as they're leaving the café .

"What's this about Sock?" he asks, with no preamble.

"He's out. Fainted on court and had to retire."

Stan sucks in a breath. "Fuck."

"So now you're playing Bemelmans. He's ranked 107. See; sometimes you just need a little bit of luck to come your way."

Stan is silent for a few moments. "Not very lucky for Sock."

"Noooo, and I feel bad for him, but not as bad as I'd feel if he knocked you out in the third round."

Stan sighs. He sounds exhausted.

"Tough match, huh?" asks Benoît, sympathetically. 

" _Really_  tough," says Stan with feeling, but he doesn't elaborate.

"What are you doing when you've finished press and physio?"

A hollow laugh. "Pretty sure I'll be watching lots of Youtube videos of Bemelmans' matches. Also, I need to eat something. I'll text you when I can get away."

The next day's schedule comes out half an hour later. Benoît's third round match against Robredo is at 11am on Court 17; an early one, as he expected. He searches for his doubles match, but it's not there. What the fuck? Have they forgotten he's supposed to be playing doubles? Not that he minds, exactly, he has enough going on at the moment, but it's frustrating not knowing.

He checks the scores automatically, and is shocked to see that Adrian Mannarino has just taken the first set off Andy Murray in a tiebreak. Surely Adrian isn't going to - well, pull a Benoît Paire, and knock out a top seed? Of all his fellow countrymen he might have expected to take a set off Murray, Mannarino is about the least likely. Mind you, Benoît & Darcis are supposed to be playing Mannarino & Fabrice Martin in their first round dubs match, if it ever happens, so Benoît can't be too upset if Adrian has a long, difficult match against Murray to recover from first.

He's just arrived back at their hotel room when Stan calls him again.

"Are you watching TV?"

"No, why? Don't tell me someone else has pulled out!"

"Adrian's two sets to love up against Andy Murray."

 _"WHAT?!”_  

Benoît grabs the remote and flicks through the channels to find the right match. He won't believe it until he sees it with his own eyes. My God. It's true. Adrian fucking Mannarino is beating Andy Murray.

"What the hell?"

Stan starts laughing. There is an edge of hysteria in it. "What is  _happening?_ "

"I don't know!" wails Benoît, half-laughing himself. "Is this whole tournament some kind of hallucination? Am I going to wake up tomorrow and find it's all a dream?"

"Well, if it  _is_  a hallucination, it's a collective one." 

Benoît chuckles. "Where are you?"

"On my way to meet Magnus. Where are you?" 

"In our room."

"Well, stay there, I'm downstairs. I'll come up."

He hangs up, and the second he does, Benoît's phone buzzes in his hand. It's a text from Edouard:

_Are you watching this?!_

It buzzes three more times in the next minute, with similarly astounded messages from Gaël, Jo and Jeremy. It must have been like this on Monday, he realises - my god, was it only Monday, it feels like weeks ago - when Benoît was playing Nishikori. All his friends watching in amazement, unable to believe their eyes as one of their own takes out a top seed. Except that Murray has already won the first three games of the third set and looks to be making a comeback.

Benoît sinks down on the edge of the bed, his eyes fixed on the TV screen.

A few minutes later, Stan runs into the room and throws himself down next to Benoît. "Did I miss anything?" he asks, breathlessly.

"Murray's about to win the third set 6-1," Benoît tells him, without taking his eyes off the screen.

"That was quick! I just ran four flights of stairs, and Murray played an entire set!"

Benoît looks at Stan laughing, and silently thanks Adrian Mannarino. Even if he loses the next three sets (which, let's face it, he probably will), Stan's forgotten about his tough match in all the excitement.

Benoît's phone buzzes. A text from Gaël.

"Istomin just pulled out!” he exclaims. “Gaël says he feels like he got in one of the last lifeboats on the Titanic!"

Stan's phone buzzes. "Nico's out."

" _What?!_  He retired too?!"

Stan laughs. "No, he just lost! What was that about Istomin?"

"Retired. Don't know why, Gaël doesn't say.”

“ _God_. At this rate, you and I will be the only people left in the competition. We'll have to play each other in the final.”

“Oh, don't even  _joke_  about it!”

“Why not? Don't you think it would be amazing?”

“No! It would be terrible. One of us would lose. What?”

Stan is looking at him with an inscrutable expression on his face.

“ _What?”_  Benoît repeats, unnerved.

Stan doesn't reply, just puts a hand on Benoît's thigh and leans in for the  _slowest_ of slow kisses.

Benoît's phone buzzes again. Benoît ignores it, and pulls Stan down on top of him.

Murray wins the fourth set 6-3 to level the match, but neither of them notices.

Stan's phone rings. Stan swears and rolls off him, mouthing “Sorry” at Benoît.

"Hello, Magnus," he says, in English.

Benoît rolls his eyes.  _Magnus interruptus_ , as usual.

"No, I haven't forgotten. I'm on my way. Nearly there, in fact. Just got caught up in the Murray match for a minute. No, I'll come to you. OK, see you in a bit.”

Stan drops his phone back into his pocket and gets to his feet. "I've got to go, sorry."

Benoît groans. "You just got here! Can't Magnus at least wait 'til the end of the match?"

Stan gives a disbelieving laugh. " _Magnus?!_  No. He can't. Also, I need to eat something."

Benoît leans back on his elbows on the bed and tries to look seductive. "Eat me, if you like."

Stan laughs. "Tempting though that offer is, I was thinking more like some pasta. But hold that thought 'til later...”

He blows Benoît a kiss, and is gone.

Benoît flops back on the bed and lets out a groan of frustration. Stan has left him with something of a problem. He could take a cold shower, or... He slides a hand into his shorts.

His phone rings. Because of course it does.

"Hello, Lio," he says, wearily.

"Are you OK? You sound odd."

Benoît withdraws the hand. "I'm fine."

"Good, because we need to talk about anti-humidity preparation for tomorrow."

Benoît gives the smallest and most sarcastic of cheers.

 

* * *

**Day 9: Friday 4th September, 2015**

_**B. Paire (FRA) vs T. Robredo(ESP)** _

_**S. Darcis (BEL) & B. Paire (FRA) vs A. Mannarino (FRA) & F. Martin (FRA)** _

Benoît wakes up at ten to six and lies there staring at the ceiling, unable to get back to sleep. In five hours he'll be playing his first ever third round match in the US Open. And in about nine hours, he'll be playing a doubles match too, because yes, Benoît's doubles match with Darcis has finally made an appearance on the schedules. They're fourth up on court 10, so even if he beats Robredo in three straight sets and gets off court by 1pm, that just about gives him enough time between matches for a shower, warm-down, physio, press, and most importantly, lunch, before he's due back on court again. At least the forecast is for slightly cooler weather today. 26 degrees, and 24 for Stan's third round match on Saturday. Still hot, but not fainting-on-court hot.  _Hopefully_. It's going to be tough to stay fit with two matches in one day, especially if the Robredo match goes to five sets, which he has a horrible feeling it might.

Of course, he beat Robredo in Hamburg last month, and in the final in Sweden the week before that, so he's got to feel a  _little_  bit confident. But Robredo's a tricky customer, and he's ranked fifteen places higher than Benoît, so who knows. If this week has taught him anything, it's that literally anything can happen. _Anything_. Stan's one of the few players not to have had some drama or other in his matches so far, which makes a nice change, after the last few weeks. Stan deserves a nice, easy run to the quarter-finals, where he's very likely to run up against an in-form Andy Murray. Murray might have thrown away two sets against Mannarino yesterday, but he's been playing at an incredibly high level all year, is clearly fighting fit, and has just come off a confidence-boosting win in Montreal. There is, unfortunately for Stan, very little chance of anyone pulling the upset against Andy and taking him out before Stan has to play him in the quarters.

Benoît stretches out an arm and gropes for his phone to check the draws. Murray's playing Bellucci next, that should be no problem for him, then Anderson or Thiem. Ugh. If Robredo is Benoît's evil nemesis, the rangy South African Kevin Anderson is Stan's. Still, Anderson just won in Winston-Salem a week ago, so he'll be extra tired. Maybe he'll flake out if it goes longer than three sets. But that's a while ahead; first Stan has to beat Troicki or Young. Unless there's an upset, Stan will be playing Murray in the quarters, and if he gets through him, Roger in the semis, and if he gets through Roger, Novak in the final. He basically has to beat the world numbers 2, 3 and 1 in succession. The way Stan's been playing lately, and the way those other guys have been playing, it doesn't seem likely.

Benoît checks the scores from last night's evening session. Richie's through, Darcis is out (not a surprise, against Roger), and Jo's through too, but Benoît knows that already, because they met up for coffee (or, rather a delicious blend of water, carbs, salt, and electrolytes) last night. They have an early practice together, at 9.45, which will serve as a warm-up for Benoît's match against Robredo, at 11 o'clock on Court 17. Jo's a top 20 player, so his third round match against Sergiy Stakhovsky will be played on Grandstand. You know you've made it in tennis when they start putting your matches on courts with names, not just numbers. With the lens of publicity turned elsewhere this week, Jo has been quietly getting on with winning all his matches, not losing a single set. He's a big guy, Jo; 6' 2", not stupid-tall like Benoît, but solidly-built, which makes him seem larger than he actually is and gives him an imposing presence. He's super-fit, too; so not very likely to wilt in the heat. And he hasn't foolishly signed up for doubles like Benoît, so his legs will be much fresher.

Beating Jo on Sunday would mean Benoît would be in the  _quarter finals at a slam_. There is no way, absolutely no way, that's going to happen. Quarter finals are for top twenty players like Stan and Jo and Richie. Occasionally some random player from the lower tiers gets lucky with the draw - or their opponent retires with an injury - and makes it that far, but almost never further than that. Benoît is not going to be that lucky. Not that he can be too disappointed; after all, he's never made it further than the second round here before, and a week ago when the draws came out he was certain he wasn't going to get beyond the first. He's mainly here for the points, anyway. The further he gets in the tournament, the higher he'll be when they announce the new ATP rankings on the Monday after the final. He hopes for top thirty. Top twenty-five would be amazing. His highest ever ranking was 23, two long years ago. But top thirty would be pretty damn good too, especially considering he started the year outside the top hundred.

And - almost entirely thanks to Benoît knocking out Nishikori in the first round - Stan will be back to no 4, even if he doesn't get any further than the quarters himself. Yeah, Stan definitely owes him for that. Well, he still owes Benoît that mind-blowing sex he promised him if he beat Nishikori. Benoît hasn't forgotten. He's keeping a mental record for the next time neither of them have a match the following day. It could be as early as Saturday night. Although, for that to happen, Benoît would have lost two matches in one day, and Stan would have just been knocked out in the third round by a 107-ranked Belgian, so they'd probably not feel like doing anything other than sobbing into a giant vat of beer.

 

====================

 

“So...” Jo begins, before Benoît has even had time to pull out his racket, “I'm going to assume you've seen Stakhovsky's latest effort?”

Benoît gapes at him. “Don't tell me he's pulled out!”

Jo laughs. “I wish! No, he's been shooting his mouth off again. I'm surprised you haven't seen it, actually, it's been all over Twitter.”

Sergiy Stakhovsky is a tennis player from Russia or one of those countries that used to be part of Russia, Benoît isn't sure which. He's somewhat notorious for comments he made a few months ago where he said that he wouldn't let his daughter play tennis because “every other woman tennis player is a lesbian”. Then, just for good measure, he added that there were “definitely no gays in the top hundred” on the male side. Benoît didn't pay much attention to all the fuss at the time. He found it funny, if anything. Besides, he was rather preoccupied, having just been dumped out of Wimbledon in the second round, losing to Bautista-Agut in five sets after being two sets to love up. Two good sets, too, not even tiebreaks. 6-2, 6-4, then 3-6, 3-6, 3-6. That scoreline is imprinted forever on the inside of his brain. He was  _winning_  that match. He should have  _won_  that match. Sometimes, he still wakes up at night and replays it in his head. He never wins, though.

“Oh, right,” he says, disinterestedly, “What's he said this time?”

Jo pulls out his phone to show Benoît the article. “Well, mainly he's just explaining why he's so sure there are no gays in the top hundred and twenty eight. Listen to this:  _'In a locker room, where half the guys walking in towels are naked, yeah, you definitely would see something different, no?'”_

Benoît gives a disbelieving laugh. “ _No!_  And what does he mean;  _different?_  What does he expect to see? It's not like our cocks are covered in glitter! Honestly, does he ever stop to think before opening his mouth and talking shit?”

“I know, right? It would be funny if he wasn't such a jerk.”

“Also, hang on, the top hundred and twenty  _eight?_  That's... weirdly specific. Does he know something we don't about the guy who's one hundred and twenty-ninth?”

Jo laughs, and checks the ATP website on his phone. “Blaz Rola,  _Slo_. Is that Slovakia or Slovenia?”

“No idea.”

“I've literally never heard of him. I don't think I'd recognise him if he were standing next to me.”

“ _Blaz?_  Is that even a name?”

“I guess it is in Slovakia. Or Slovenia.”

Benoît leans in to see the photo. “Oh, yeah,  _definitely_  gay.”

Jo looks sceptical. “You think?”

“I've absolutely no idea!” Benoît laughs. “Maybe he's saying that  _everyone_  outside the top hundred and twenty eight is gay. Oh,  _hang on_... Yeah, that's right, it's all coming back to me now... there's that form they make you sign when you hit the top hundred, you must remember... I promise to give up sucking cock in return for automatic qualification for slams and a sponsorship deal with a yogurt company.”

Jo laughs, and shoves him in the shoulder. “Shithead. I was totally trying to remember which form you meant.”

Benoît laughs too. “No, but seriously though, how many gay players do you know? Men, I mean. I obviously don't need to ask you about the women, because they're  _all_ lesbians, according to Stak.”

“Mm... eight.”

“Eight? Interesting.”

Jo raises a quizzical eyebrow. “You?”

“Seven,” Benoît tells him. “I wonder if we're talking about the same people.”

“Maybe,” Jo grins. “I assume at least four of them are.” He gives Benoît a pointed look, as if to say “you can ask, but my lips are sealed.”

“And how many more set your gaydar flashing?”

“Probably the same again, if not more.”

“Yeah, I'd definitely say more. If I had to guess, I'd say between fifteen and twenty, although maybe some of them are outside the top hundred and twenty eight.”

“Well, it sounds like Stakhovsky's gaydar needs a bit of fine tuning.”

“Ha ha! He needs  _something_ , that's for sure. A good kicking, maybe.” He frowns, growing more annoyed by the minute. “I can't believe he said that. What a dick! No gay players! How would  _he_ know? Because obviously, he’d be the first person you’d tell if you were going to come out. You’d better fucking beat him today, Jo, because if you don’t, I may have to wait for him in the tunnel after the match and beat him to death with his own racket. I mean, what does he think? That he’s so irresistible, any gay man who sees him wandering around the locker room in a towel will immediately try to jump him?”

Jo laughs. “I bet that’s  _exactly_  what he thinks. It’s that  _'Backs against the wall, lads'_  mentality. My grandfather had the same attitude. A lot of men of his generation did.”

“Yeah, but he’s not your grandfather’s age, is he? He’s -“ Benoît pulls out his phone and Googles Stakhovsky's name - “Twenty-six! He’s the same age as I am!”

Jo just shrugs. “There’s no age restriction on being a moron, I guess.”

“Why aren’t you more pissed off about this?” Benoît demands, furiously. “You’re playing him this afternoon, and this is what he thinks of you!”

“Because I don’t  _care_ ,” Jo replies, with annoying calm. “He can think what he likes, say what he likes. Doesn’t affect me or my life in any way.”

“Of course it does! What if you and Richie wanted to come out? Wouldn’t you think twice if you knew that was the reaction you’d get in the locker room?”

“No. I wouldn’t.”

“Oh,  _come_   _on!_ ”

“Seriously. I wouldn’t give him or others like him a second thought. It should only matter what you and your partner think, surely?”

Benoît hesitates. He wants to say something, but he isn’t sure if it’s too private to share, even with Jo.

“You’ve seen the amount of shit Stan’s had to deal with lately. Everyone has a fucking opinion;  _everyone_. It’s all very well to say it’s only what the two of you think that matters, but… there are a lot of Stakhovskys in the world.”

He stops, realising that he’s voicing Stan’s point of view rather than his own. He’s always thought the same as Jo;  _fuck ‘em, it’s nobody else’s business. It’s my life._  Or at least, that’s what he used to think, when he was number two hundred and something in the world and nobody knew who the hell he was. And when it was only him who might get hurt.

A few months ago, Benoît did an interview where he was asked where he would like to see himself in the future, and he told them, “ _On the beach... with a cocktail in hand, one wife, maybe a child, and many regrets about my career”_ _._ All true, except for the pronouns (and the regrets, but at the time of the interview he was out of the top hundred with a knee injury, so feeling justifiably sorry for himself). For wife, read husband (he would totally marry Stan if he asked), and Stan already has a kid whom Benoît adores (even if he's quietly very happy that she lives with her mother), so that box has been ticked too. In the same interview, he  _may_  have accidentally mentioned that both he and Stan live in the same city, Geneva, and often go for dinner or a beer together. Stan scolded him a bit for that (the ATP website helpfully stills lists them as living in separate countries, and what the ATP doesn't know won't hurt them), but Benoît just pointed out that he could have been considerably more indiscreet, so Stan just sighed and told him to be careful.

Benoît has always blithely assumed that one day they won't  _have_  to be careful. Maybe one day he can say a proper goodbye to Stan at an airport, hold hands in public, kiss him good luck in the players' locker room, maybe even sit in Stan's box next to Magnus when Stan plays a big match, instead of having to watch it on the television in a hotel room. It would be nice not to have to lie in interviews. It would be nice not to have to pretend they don't live together. It would be nice not to be constantly aware, whenever they're in public, that he can't just put an arm around his boyfriend, or touch his knee, or rest his head on his shoulder, even give him a chaste little kiss on the cheek. They can't even have a normal conversation in a public place without lowering their voices, in case someone overhears. All it would take is one person to recognise them and tweet about it. One person to carelessly, casually ruin their lives.

“Anyway,” says Jo, and Benoît snaps out of his reverie, “I'm not going to beat Stakhovsky by standing here all day arguing with you about it, and if I don't beat him, you're playing him next. Are we going to hit a few balls, or not?”

 

====================

 

11am, Court 17. Benoît wins the coin toss, and elects to serve. He and Robredo are both pretty evenly matched in the first set, with no breaks for anyone, and too soon it's 5-5, and Benoît needs to step it up now, try and break Robredo's service game, because otherwise this is going to a tiebreak, and he's not Stan, he isn't going to win this if he has to face three tiebreaks in a row.

It goes to a tiebreak. At least he's serving first. Not that it helps. Within a few minutes he's 1-3 down, but somehow battles back to win it 7-3. Later, he'll be proud of that statistic; right now he's just relieved to have pulled through. He knew this match was going to be close, but if it carries on likes this... his nerves may not stand it. Against Nishikori it helped that he never thought he could win it until, well, he'd _won_ it. Now that he's made it this far, though, now that the fourth round is tantalisingly within reach, and beyond that the quarter-finals... now he desperately wants to win this match.

The first game of the second set seems to last for ever, with both players fighting over every point. He loses count of the number of times it goes back to deuce, but finally he makes an unforced error and Robredo wins the point, and the game.

Benoît looks at the scoreboard. Ten minutes for one game. They've been playing for over an hour already. If he thought he could get this match over quickly and have a nice long rest before his doubles match this evening, it seems he was mistaken.

At the changeover, he reminds himself that he is one set up and hasn't been broken yet, and that's all good. He has every reason to think he can win this match.

His first service game of the second set is just as much of a struggle as Robredo's was, but finally he manages to hold. Another ten minute game. Roger won his last three-setter in the same time it's taken to them to play only one set and two games. OK, he really needs to stop looking at the clock, and just concentrate on winning this match. _Come on!_

Benoît doesn't realise until afterwards, because at the time he's in the zone, a tennis machine, but he wins five games in a row to take the second set 6-1. He can't quite believe it himself, but then remembers that Mannarino was two sets to love up against Andy Murray last night, and he still lost the match. Benoît can't afford to get complacent, not with a place in the fourth round at stake.

After that, time seems to speed up. Everything he hits is a winner. Across the net, Robredo is playing like a man who's already lost, spraying errors all over the place. Before Benoît knows it, it's all over; the third set score an exact copy of the second: 7-6, 6-1, 6-1.

There's a text from Stan in amongst all the others when he gets back to the locker room:

_4TH ROUND! U r amazing!_

Benoît takes a moment to sit and savour his win before heading off for physio. He can't stop grinning. He's in the fourth round at the US Open. The first time he's reached the fourth round in any slam. Not only that, but he's the first player to qualify, so at the moment he is the  _only_  player in the fourth round at the US Open.

Later, after a shower and press, Benoît goes for lunch on his own, just for a bit of time to himself on this insanely chaotic day. He checks the live score app and sees that Tsonga's through in three straight sets. Which is... good, because Stakhovsky's out, and he's an arsehole, but Jo will be harder to beat. Still, if Benoît has to get beaten by someone, there will be some small consolation in knowing that his loss means one of his closest friends advances. Every time he's lost to Stan since they've been together, that's been some sort of salve to the wound. But that's in the future. He has another match to play first, though it's hard to get up much enthusiasm for a stupid doubles match when he's in the  _fourth round at the US Open,_ woo-hoo!

At 3.45 he's back in the locker room, although at least this time he has Steve Darcis with him, diffusing the tension. Doubles is considerably less stressful to play than singles. If you lose, you have someone to commiserate with, and if you win, you can celebrate together. It gives him a bit of a pang remembering his one win in Chennai with Stan. Then, they celebrated by going to Burger King in a shopping mall. Now, if they won a doubles title together, they'd surely celebrate by going to bed.  _For about a week_. The thought makes him smile, which makes Darcis ask him what he's grinning at. 

“Oh, nothing," he says airily, "Just happy to be in the fourth round...”

It doesn't take long for the smile to be well and truly wiped off Benoît's face. He and Darcis lose the first set by a thoroughly humiliating 1-6. In the second set, though, they seem to find their rhythm, and, helped by serving first, soon find themselves 5-4 up and only two points away from taking the set and levelling the match. It goes back and forth to deuce more times than he can count, but finally Mannarino and Martin hold to take it to 5-5, and then very quickly, 5-6.

Benoît and Darcis need to break back now, or they're out. Instead, Benoît double faults, gifting their opponents two set points. Within moments, it's all over. He apologises to Darcis for helping him to lose his second match in less than 24 hours. The look of desolation on his partner's face causes hot guilt to bubble up in Benoît's stomach. He was wrong, doubles isn't less stressful than singles. He's let someone else down, and that's one of the worst feelings in the world. Maybe his half-formed idea of playing doubles with Stan isn't such a good one after all.

 

=====================

 

Benoît and Stan go for dinner together again that evening. The next day's schedules are out. Stan's match against Bemelmans will be fourth up on Armstrong, so early evening.

"Armstrong,  _again?_ ” Benoît exclaims, outraged. “You're the number five seed, why aren't you playing on the main court?"

Stan shrugs. "I don't mind."

"And actually, since Nishikori's out, you're the  _fourth_  highest seeded player in the tournament! Andy, Roger and Novak have all played on Arthur Ashe. Why haven't you?"

Stan doesn't answer for a few moments, slowly winding a strand of spaghetti around his fork. “Maybe _you'll_ get to play on Arthur Ashe."

Benoît hasn't even considered this possibility. "Oh, don't even  _joke_  about it."

"I'm not joking. You're in the  _round of sixteen_ , Ben."

They grin at each other. It still seems unbelievable.

"So," Benoît begins, lowering his voice in a confidential manner, "There's almost twenty-four hours until your match tomorrow..."

Stan puts down his fork and waits for him to continue.

"And it's also, like, a  _week_  since we've had sex..."

Stan bites back a laugh. "And in that week you've played some of your best tennis ever and made it to the fourth round of the US Open. So  _maybe._.."

"No. Nope."

"I'm just saying, maybe that's  _why_. Maybe... we should hold off until after the tournament."

"Right. No. That's another ten days away. No."

"Actually, you know, that's not a bad idea. Maybe we should hold off at  _all_ tournaments from now on."

"Oh, fuck you," says Benoît. "We're on tour ten months of the year. You might as well ask me to cut it off."

"Well, I wasn't going to go  _that_  far..."

 _"Staaanleeey,"_ Benoît whines, "I'm in the last sixteen at a slam. On Monday, I was  _trending on Twitter._  I was on the front page of  _L'Equipe_. If you won't satisfy my needs, there are plenty of other people who will."

"I'm sure there are. But why have a Big Mac now when you can wait a few days and have a banquet?"

"Because I'm hungry  _now?"_ He thinks for a moment. "And also because I really like Big Macs. And Whoppers. And..." - he lets out an ecstatic sigh at the thought of it - " _White Castle..._ "

Stan bites his lip. "You're really hot when you get all excited about junk food."

"Oh, really?"

"Really. You make these little moaning noises. It's very...”

He tails off, and they look at each other.

 _"Well?"_  asks Benoît, impatiently. 

Stan makes a face. "You know I want to as much as you do. We just can't. Not yet. We can do other stuff, though."

"I don't want to just  _lick_  the burger, I want to  _eat_  it."

Stan makes a noise of frustration. "You're making this really hard for me, you know." 

"I know. I'm  _trying_  to make it hard."

Stan raises his eyebrows as if to ask if he meant to make that particular double entendre. Really, he should know Benoît well enough by now.

Benoît laughs. He can't remain serious for long. "So; the  _other_  stuff?"

Stan leans back in his chair and surveys him for a few moments. "You know what one of the best things about playing in a slam is?"

"Origami towels in the hotel room?"

"They'll send a car to take you and your hot French boyfriend back to your hotel."

" _Ah_. Is the hot French boyfriend compulsory? Because there aren't many of us left in the tournament. I'm not sure there'll be enough hot French boyfriends to go around."

Stan chuckles. "Well, then, it's lucky I brought my own, isn't it?"

"It is," Benoît agrees. "Otherwise you might have had to pull a name out of a hat, and imagine if you'd got  _Llodra_..."

Stan decides enough is enough, and signals to the waitress for the bill.

 

* * *

**Day 10: Saturday 5th September 2015**

_**R. Bemelmans (BEL) vs. S. Wawrinka (SUI)** _

Benoît gets to sleep in, for a change. Lionel kindly gave him the morning off, knowing he'd be exhausted from playing two matches in one day (and to be fair, Benoît  _is_  exhausted, but tennis is only part of the reason).

Stan has already gone out and left a note on the pillow: _"Morning, Sleeping Beauty. Didn't want to wake you, gone for a run."_ He and Stan were far too pre-occupied to check the latest scores and schedules last night, but now Benoît sees that Edouard & Daniel Nestor are third up on Court 5 against Jeremy Chardy and Lukasz Kubot. They should be on about 3pm. Good, so their match should be over before Stan's starts. It would be agony trying to watch both matches at once. Richie's match against Tomic is at 11am on Grandstand. For once, that all works out perfectly. He can watch Richie's match, have some lunch, then watch Edouard's dubs match and finally Stan's. Of course, there's no way Lionel is going to let him just watch tennis all day, not when he's playing Jo tomorrow in the round of sixteen. Maybe if he works hard all day, Lionel will at least let him watch Stan's match this evening.

He checks the scores from the late matches, and sits up straight in shock.  _Jesus!_  Rafa's out! In the third round, too. Benoît made it further than Rafael Nadal! Looks like Fognini played the match of his life, good for him. Goffin's pulled out with heat exhaustion, he sees. Neither Stan nor Benoît were likely to face Goffin in their respective draws, but he's the number 14 seed and could have pulled an upset somewhere. Not any more. Number 18 Lopez beat number 10 Raonic. Good for Lopez. No-one would have expected that result, although now that he comes to think of it, did he see photos of Raonic taking a medical time out a few days ago? Cilic is through, though after a hard five-setter, and... Jeremy Chardy knocked out Ferrer! _What?!_ Jeremy is really on a roll this tournament. Benoît hasn't seen much of him though. He will text him a bit later and see if they can meet up today, especially since if Benoît gets through Tsonga and Jeremy can beat Cilic, they'd be playing each other in the quarter finals. He allows himself to imagine it, just for a moment. Two Frenchmen in the quarter-finals! A literal French quarter, ha ha. Of course, if Jeremy makes it that far, it will be a French quarter regardless, it just might be  _Jo_  instead of Benoît...

He studies the draws properly, now that the list of names isn't too many to remember. So, if he gets through Jo it'll be Chardy or Cilic. Both of them just played hard five-setters, and Jeremy is still playing dubs, so won't have had a rest day between matches. Neither win feels impossible right now, even though Cilic is last year's winner – Benoît has already beaten last year's runner-up, after all.

If he makes it to the  _semis_... he'll be playing Novak Djokovic. Novak's on his usual imperious form, but Benoît's had the benefit of a dry run recently, and he took him to a tie-break in the first set, so it's not beyond the realms of possibility that he could at least win one set. Even that would be more than he could have ever dreamed of at the start of this year.

Stan's got Bemelmans, the Belgian, later today (what IS his first name? Benoît should probably find out), then faces tricky Troicki, or Donald Young. After that, of course, it's Andy Murray  _and_  Roger Federer, both on incredible form and hardly tested yet, apart from Murray's blip with Mannarino the other night. Stan's draw is way worse than Benoît's.

He catches himself and shakes his head in wonder. Nine days ago when the draws were announced, he was cursing his rotten luck at drawing Nishikori in the first round. Never in a million years did he imagine he'd still be here now, playing for a spot in the quarter-finals. It's like an incredible dream. An incredible dream in which, not only is Benoît one match away from the quarter finals at Flushing Meadows, but he's here with the man he loves and that just makes everything even more amazing. Usually, one of them wins, one loses, and it's hard to celebrate properly when your boyfriend is miserable because he just got thrashed by some up and comer ranked in the 200s.

Benoît smiles to himself, remembering last night. They didn't fuck - Stan's match today is too important - but they did everything else. He should probably get out of bed, find some breakfast,  _definitely_  have a shower, before anything else. He can't go and meet Lionel like this, all... _sex-sticky_... Not that Lionel would know, of course, but Benoît would. He wouldn't be able to look Lionel in the eye. He checks the time - ten past ten – and yawns. Well, maybe just another half an hour. He reaches for the remote and switches on the TV. Stan's face fills the screen, and he laughs out loud.

"Are you spying on me, Stanley?" he asks the television, but TV-Stan doesn't reply. It's just a still image, over which the commentators are discussing the matches of the day. Nobody thinks Bemelmans is going to pull an upset, but they do refer to Stan "possibly not being in the best headspace at the moment", which makes Benoît swear and turn it off again. He doesn't feel much like lying around in bed anymore. Right. A shower first, then breakfast. They'll have stopped serving breakfast in the hotel restaurant, but he fancies a walk, thinks he'll head to the grounds early, grab some brunch in the players' canteen, then he should have time to watch at least the first set of Richie's match before he has to meet Lionel on the practice courts at 12.30.

 

====================

 

12.20pm. Richie is already two sets to love up as Benoît waits for Lionel to join him so they can go through the match plan for tomorrow. He looks pretty in control. Another Frenchman joining Jo, Jeremy and himself in the fourth round. It's a shame they can't all get through. An all-French final, that would be amazing. Maybe Richie will knock out Andy so Stan doesn't have to play him, he's done it before. Mind you Richie was the one who knocked Stan out of Wimbledon two months ago, so he might not be much of an improvement. 

Benoît idly checks the other live scores while he waits. Garcia-Lopez is one set up against sixth seed Berdych. They're both in Stan's half of the draw, and if Stan beats Murray, and one of those guys somehow knocks out Federer, Stan might have to face one of them in the semi final. It's not very likely, though. And actually, it probably doesn't even matter. There are only a handful of guys left in the room, and they're all having to fight each other for the chance to get beaten by the king. Because no-one, but no-one is going to pull the upset against Djokovic. They might as well engrave his name on the trophy now, and be done with it.

2.30pm. Benoît has finished his practice session, and is back in the players' canteen, drinking coffee and obsessively checking the US Open website to see what's happening. Richie won in three straight sets, that's good. Jo will be pleased. Technically,it's _possible_ that either Richie and Jo, or Stan and Benoît could end up playing each other in the final, but someone would probably have to shoot Novak Djokovic before that would happen. Benoît is glad he won't have to play Stan at least; that would be a heartbreaker. They've played each other a few times since they've been together, but never in a really important match.

He checks the men's doubles scores. There are four Frenchmen on court right now; Edouard and his Canadian partner Daniel Nestor have just started their match against Jeremy and his Polish partner Kubot. Meanwhile, Mannarino & Martin, who so resoundingly beat Benoît & Darcis last night, are playing Klaasen & Ram, and have just won the first set 6-4.

In singles, Berdych's through over Garcia-Lopez in four sets, and Roger's about to serve for the match. Of  _course_  he is. Benoît likes Roger a lot, but there's only one Swiss he's supporting in this tournament.

3.20pm. Edouard & Nestor won the first set 6-4 and are about to go 3-2 up in the second. Vesely's retired – another casualty of the heat - meaning no 13 seed Isner's through, but Benoît isn't too bothered about him, because he's playing Roger next, and Roger will beat him. Although Isner's match finishing early will mean Stan's on earlier than expected, once the women's match in-between has finished.

Stan's practice session isn't due to finish until 4pm, maybe Benoît should text him to warn him. Except that Magnus will be on top of things, of course. Magnus is  _always_  on top of things. Still, Benoît probably won't see Stan before his match now. He pulls out his phone.

_Good luck today, u can do it! from yr hot French boyfriend xxx_

Then, after a moment's thought:

_p.s. no more tiebreaks my nerves can't take it_

3.45pm. Edouard & Nestor are serving for the match. _"Allez, Edouard!"_ he shouts at the screen, causing several people to turn and glare at him.

Benoît's phone buzzes. It's a text from Stan:

_Which one??? ;) Thanks, enjoy yr day off. Sxx_

He puts his phone away, grinning, and looks back at the TV screen to find that Edouard & Nestor have a match point. " _Come on,"_  he hisses, under his breath. But Jeremy saves it. Benoît swears loudly. He likes Jeremy, but Edouard is his best friend. Or at least, his best friend that he isn't also sleeping with.

4pm. That's it, all over. Game, set and match to the French/Canadian team. "YESSSSS!" he shouts, not caring at all who glares at him.  _"Alleeeez!"_

4.30pm: The women's match before Stan's is going to a third set, so Stan might not be getting on court for another hour. Troicki's two sets to love up against Young, who's just called for a medical time out. Looks like The US Open Of Death may be about to claim another victim.

Benoît has to decide now if he's going to watch Stan's match in the players' lounge, find a bar, or watch it back at the hotel. The hotel, he decides. He has a match tomorrow, probably the most important match of his career, and the schedules come out soon; he might need to get another early night.

He checks the live scores app again on his way back to the hotel. Far from throwing in the towel, Donald Young has made a heroic last-ditch attempt not to lose the match in three straight sets, and is 3-0 up in the third. The women's match before Stan's seems to have barely progressed since the last time Benoît looked. Stan will be sitting in the locker room now, chewing his nails and waiting to get on court.

By the time Benoît gets back to the hotel at 5pm and puts the TV on, Troicki has pulled level, and looks very much like he's going to win the match.

His phone rings. "I'm bored," Stan tells him, "Distract me."

Benoît laughs. "OK, who would you rather play next, Troicki or Young?"

"Umm... Troicki, I think."

"Why? Troicki's much higher-ranked than Young. And Young's playing men's  _and_  mixed dubs, so he's going to be really tired, especially if it goes to more than three sets."

"Yeah, but he's also American. It's so much harder when the entire crowd wants the other guy to win."

"Well, then, you'll be pleased to hear that Troicki's two sets to love up, and they're about to go to a tiebreak in the third."

"Huh."

"You don't  _sound_  pleased."

"I think I should probably try and win this match before I think about the next one, that's all."

"Fair enough. Sorry. Oh, Edouard won his dubs match, did you see?"

"No, I didn't. That's great! Good for Ed. Who's he playing next?"

"Actually, I'm not sure. Oh! Young's just won the tiebreaker, so it's going to a fourth."

" _Ben!_  I don't want to know!"

"Sorry. What are -"

"Shit, I've got to go. Sorry."

"What,  _now?_  Oh!  _OK good luck I love you!_ "

There's a short silence on the other end of the phone.

"Yes," Stan says, in an oddly stilted voice. “Thanks, I... agree with that last part.”

Benoît knows immediately that there's someone else in the locker room other than Magnus, someone Stan can't talk freely in front of.

"OK, I'll see you later. Remember, no tiebreaks!"

But Stan's already hung up.

Benoît grabs the remote and quickly scrolls through the channels until he finds Stan's match. His phone buzzes. It's not Stan, though, but Jo:

_Schedules are out. Meet you at 12.30 on Armstrong. May the best man win._

Benoît suddenly feels those familiar butterflies churning in his stomach. He takes a deep breath to steady his nerves. OK, then. An early match, but not too early. They'll be playing during the afternoon heat, though. He checks the weather forecast: 25 degrees tomorrow, that's fine. Maybe he should drink something now, though, make sure his body has time to absorb plenty of liquid before the match.

His phone rings. It's Lionel, with the same news, and the same advice. Benoît gets rid of him quickly; he can see Stan warming up on the television screen, out of the corner of his eye.

Bemelmans wins the coin toss, and elects to serve.

The first three games proceed with no breaks of serve for either player. In the fourth, Stan hits three double faults in a row, which has Benoît watching through his fingers and making a noise like a slowly dying cat. By some miracle, though, Stan still manages to hold for 2-2

The next two games also proceed with no breaks of serve. 3-3.

Benoît shakes his head. Bemelmans is ranked 107 in the world. Stan should be trouncing him. If Stan can just get through this match, and the next one, there would be shame at all in losing to Murray, Federer or Djokovic. Stan would still be gutted, of course, but not as much as he would be if he lost to someone ranked 107 in the world, whose first name Benoît doesn't even know.

"Come on, baby," he urges. "Break him."

And, as if by magic, Stan breaks. 4-3.

 _"Yesss!"_ shouts Benoît, punching the air as though he's just won the game himself.

Stan wins his service game to take it to 5-3, and then breaks again to win the final game and the set, 6-3.

"That's better," Benoît tells the television, "First set wobble out of the way,  just win this nice and quickly now, please."

Stan's serving first in the second set, which allows Benoît to relax a little. Just a little, though. There's absolutely nothing relaxing about watching Stan play tennis,  _nothing_. 

Stan wins his first service game, and so does the Belgian (His first name begins with R, it seems. Roger? Richie?  _Rafa?_ ). In the third game, Stan double faults, goes 15-40 down, and is so frustrated he smashes his racket into the ground, a la Benoît, then just for good measure, breaks it over his knee, to make quite sure it's dead.

Benoît holds his breath, but the umpire makes no comment. Umpires are always loath to dock the top players points or fine them for code violations; Benoît would likely not have been so lucky. Stan battles back with his new racket to win the game, and he lets the breath out again, but then Stan makes three errors in a row to lose his service game in about thirty seconds flat. Benoît has lost track of how many double faults Stan has made in this match. Bemelmans is now 2-3 up.

Benoît realises he is so tense that he's hugging his knees to his chest and his heart is pounding as though he's playing the match himself.

Stan wins his service game, 3-3.

Stan breaks and takes it to 4-3.

Bemelmans breaks back, 4-4.

Stan wins his service game, 5-4.

Changeover. Stan, looking furious, changes his shirt. Usually, if Stan were winning easily and playing well, Benoît would enjoy this moment, maybe shout something lewd at the TV. He doesn't feel much like that now.

The commentators are talking about Stan's “inconsistency”, as they always do. “ _Why can't he play like he did at the French Open, all the time?”_ one of them asks.

“Because he  _can't_ ,” Benoît mutters, through gritted teeth. “Nobody could. He's not Superman. Even your precious Roger sometimes has an off day.”

“ _Of course, he's had a difficult time in his personal life lately,”_  the commentator goes on. “ _So that's bound to have affected him.”_

“Yes, and you idiots don't help by constantly going on about it!” Benoît retorts.

The players are back on court. Stan just needs to break Bemelmans and win this game to go two sets up. Two terrible sets, but two sets up nonetheless. But no, instead Bemelmans takes it to 5-5.

"What did I say about no tiebreaks, Stanley?" Benoît shouts at the TV.

Seems like Stan heard him, because he wins his service game, and now he's one game away from winning the set. Again. Or taking it to a tiebreak. Again. Please god, not another tiebreak.

At the next changeover, Stan sits there for the entire time with his towel over his head, as though he's hiding from the crowd, the cameras, the whole world.

It's Bemelmans' service game now. Benoît has a horrible feeling he's going to win it, and the set.

6-6.

Tiebreak.

Benoît almost can't watch. 

1 point to Stan, and 1 to Bemelmans.

2-1.

3-1, but only thanks to an error by the Belgian.

4-1. Yes!

4-2. No!

4-3.  _Nooo!_

Benoît literally can't watch.

5-3.

6-3.

_Please..._

6-4.

And now Stan has three set points.

Bemelmans saves one.

6-5. Two set points.

7-5, and Stan wins the set and goes two sets to love up. Benoît can't even manage to raise a cheer. It's a car crash of a match. Stan is not wearing the expression of someone who is two sets up. He's wearing the expression of someone who, three months ago, won a slam, and is now struggling for every point against a Belgian ranked in the hundreds. Benoît wishes he could go down there himself and  _do_  something. Would it help, if he was sitting in Stan's box next to Magnus, willing him on? They don't do it, as a rule, because obviously people might start to suspect, and anyway, usually they have their own match preparation to concentrate on. All he can do is watch, and hope, and swear at the TV, and pray that Stan finds it within himself to just win one more set. Just get it over with, as soon as possible. They can deal with the fall-out afterwards.

As per the two previous sets, the first four games of the third set pass with no-one getting broken, then Stan finally - finally! - breaks to take it to 3-2, then holds to go 4-2 up.

"That's more like it," Benoît tells the television. "You can do it."

Stan's looking determined now, like he can see the end of this fucking awful match in sight and is clawing his way towards it by his fingernails.

He breaks again to take it to 5-2, and it's got to be over now, surely.  _Surely._

Stan serves for the match, and immediately loses the point with an unforced error, then does exactly the same thing two more times to go down 0-40.

Benoît lets out a torrent of swearing.

15-40.

Come  _on_ , Stanley!

 _Aaand_ Stan makes yet another error to lose the game. The camera finds Magnus, who has his head in his hands.

5-3.

Bemelmans hits two aces in a row to win his service game before Benoît can even blink.

5-4.

Stan serves for the match. Again.

Bemelmans hits a winner to go 0-15 up.

Stan double faults. 0-40.

"FUCK!" yells Benoît, slamming his fist down into the pillow. "What are you  _doing_ , Stanley?"

15-40.

 _Please_ , Stan.

Stan makes another error, then hits an ace down the line. Pretty much a summation of this entire match in two points. He gets match point – Benoît holds his breath - but Bemelmans saves it. Benoît lets out a howl.

Stan gets another match point.

Benoît puts his hands over his eyes, then immediately removes them. He can't look, but he can't look away either.

Stan hits a forehand winner down the line and that's it; game, set and match, 6-3, 7-6, 6-4. That score makes it look like he played a lot better than he actually did.

Stan isn't celebrating. He looks like he wants to go away right now and smash something, quite possibly his head into a wall. Magnus, about as grim-faced as Benoît has ever seen him, looks like he might be the one suggesting it.

It is not quite 8pm. Benoît should probably eat something, and then get an early night. Stan's going to have to face the press (he'll get crucified. Ten to one some idiot will ask him if he's still not over the Kyrgios business) and Magnus (Magnus's disappointment will be the worst thing of all), physio and everything else before he can get away, come back here, and probably cry. Benoît will wait up for him, of course, but he really does need to be in bed before eleven at the latest.

He should text Stan too, just so he knows Benoît is thinking of him. It's difficult to know what to say, though.

_Only one tiebreaker, better than last time! :D:D:D_

He deletes it before he's even finished typing the last smiley.

_4th round!!!! Well done!!!_

Too patronising. Also, making the fourth round is hardly an achievement worthy of multiple exclamation marks when you are number 5 in the world and a two-time slam winner. He deletes that message too.

_Will wait up for u xxx_

He stares at the message for a few long moments, waiting for what, he doesn't know, then presses send.

Benoît needs to get out of this room, even if it's only for an hour. He goes for a walk around the block, wanders down a side street, and finds himself in a little neighbourhood Italian restaurant. Italian food makes everything better, always. Benoît downs a quick plate of pasta, has a nice chat with a fan and poses for a selfie, and picks up some deli stuff for Stan to eat when he makes it back to the hotel.

He keeps checking his phone all the way through the meal, but there's no text from Stan.

There's still no text from Stan by the time Benoît arrives back at the hotel, or when he is sitting on the sofa, watching the video of his last match against Tsonga for the third time. He texts Stan again, unable to concentrate:

_Hope u r OK. If I'm asleep when you get back, wake me up, no matter what time it is. Bx_

Benoît turns off the laptop and gets ready for bed as slowly as possible, hoping Stan will be back soon.

Finally, at a quarter to eleven, he turns off the light. He's a little bit angry at Stan for not replying to his texts to let him know he's OK. Benoît has a really important match tomorrow. He does not need to be lying here worrying about Stan, and Stan should know that.

Almost as if by telepathy, his phone buzzes on the bedside table and he makes a grab for it.

_Am OK. Back soon. Don't wait up._

_Idiot_ , thinks Benoît, his anger fading at once. _As if I'm not gonna wait up_.

Despite his best efforts, he does fall asleep. He wakes some time later in the dark to find Stan sleeping soundly beside him.

Benoît listens for a while, and decides from the sound of Stan's breathing that he's really asleep, and not just pretending to be. 

"Stan?" he whispers, just to make sure. "Stanley?"

No answer. Benoît doesn't wake him, just snuggles closer, and intertwines his feet with Stan's. But now he's wide awake himself, and his mind inevitably drifts to tomorrow's match.

He's only played Jo twice before, which is unusual for a fellow countryman. Benoît is well aware that most people will expect Jo to win tomorrow, but he doesn't feel it's a foregone conclusion at all. He's been playing really well this week, come through some tough matches, and although the last time they played each other Jo won, Benoît took him to a tiebreak in both sets. It was a really close match. He expects it to be close tomorrow, too.

It's always harder to play another Frenchman; extra pressure from the fans and media, and from yourself too, because you're playing someone you know well. Especially this match, with a place in the quarter finals at the US Open at stake. Jo has been here before, of course. In a way, there's more pressure on him to win than Benoît. When you're ranked in the 40s and beat someone higher than you, it's an upset. You're Jack the Giant-Killer, the all-conquering hero. When you're in the top 20 and lose to a lower-ranked player, suddenly everyone's talking like it's the death knell of your career. He's seen it enough times with Stan. Stan's been ranked number 4 for most of the last year, which means he's basically only allowed to lose to the three guys above him. Lose to anyone else, and the press start banging on about your  _inconsistency_. It's a lot of pressure for anyone to deal with. And Jo is thirty now, he must know there won't be many more chances like this.

Benoît knows exactly how much this means to his friend. Jo is the same age as Stan; one of the generation of players who spent years in the top twenty, even made it to a couple of finals, but couldn’t get past the Big fucking Four to actually win any slams. Stan’s late-career success seems to have given many of them hope that the same thing could happen to them, if they just did the same things he did – changed their attitude, got a new coach, got fitter, tried harder, wanted it more. Maybe Jo does want it more, having waited so long.

Not that Benoît doesn't want it too. This is his sixth year at a slam, and the furthest he's ever got in the draw. He knows that realistically, he has no chance of beating Cilic, and even less chance of beating Djokovic. But maybe he could beat Jo, and make it to the quarter final. Benoît could hold his head up high if he lost in the quarters. He might even finally be able to get back into the top thirty. That would be an amazing way to end the season. More than he could possibly have dreamed of a year ago, when he was flat on his back and wondering if he'd ever play tennis again.

He gropes for his phone on the bedside table and checks the time, wincing in the sudden glare. Nearly half past one, shit. He should get some sleep, or he can wave goodbye to any chance of making the quarter finals, the top thirty, all of it.

 

* * *

**Day 11: Sunday 6th September 2015**

_**B. Paire (FRA) vs J. Tsonga (FRA)** _

His phone alarm going off at 7.30 wakes him what seems like minutes later. Stan makes a noise of protest beside him, then slips back into sleep. Benoît automatically reaches for his phone, and scrolls quickly through all the good luck messages from family and friends.

He checks the schedules to confirm his early practice at 10.15, and sees that Stan has also signed up for an early practice session, and a double session at that. That's good. They can have breakfast and go to the grounds together. Stan won't have much time alone to mope.

He checks the late scores. Ah, Nico & Pierre are through in the doubles, he'd quite forgotten they were even playing in all the excitement. They're in the same half of the draw as Edouard & Nestor, so if both teams make it to the semi-finals, they'll be playing each other. Shame, it could have been an all (well, three-quarters) French final.

And, not that it matters right now, but Murray, Anderson and Young (who somehow battled back from two sets down to win his match 3-2) are all through to the round of sixteen. Seeing his name on the list in black and white is both thrilling and somewhat sobering too:

Djokovic v Bautista Agut

Lopez v Fognini

Paire v Tsonga

Cilic v Chardy

Wawrinka v Young

Anderson v Murray

Berdych v Gasquet

Isner v Federer

Four Frenchmen, two Americans, two Swiss, two Spaniards, an Italian, a Czech, a Croatian, a South African, a Brit and a Serb. Looking at that list objectively, and taking Djokovic, Federer and Murray as a given, the rest of the match-ups look like they could go either way. Well, Chardy won't get through Cilic, not unless Cilic pulls out with an injury or something. Stan should thrash Young, but the way he's been playing this week, and especially last night, nothing's certain. The crowd will be against him, too.

Benoît checks Twitter quickly, and with not a little trepidation. Lots of nice, positive messages from fans wishing him good luck today. Also, of course, plenty of people saying that they expect Jo to win, but that's not a surprise. "You can do it!" a fan tweets him, just as he's about to turn off his phone. He smiles. He actually thinks he can.

First, though, a shower, then breakfast.

Stan's awake when Benoît emerges from the shower, sitting up in bed and checking his phone.

"Morning," he says, a little sheepishly.

"Good morning," says Benoît, coming over to kiss Stan on the forehead. Stan tips his head up and pulls Benoît down for a proper kiss. They smile at each other, although Stan's is a little forced, Benoît thinks.

"So... a big day today, huh?"

"Yes, a big day. I feel ready for it, though."

Stan nods. "Good. You're gonna beat him, I can feel it."

Benoît laughs. "I hope so! We'll see."

There is a small silence.

"So, you don't want to talk about it?" Benoît presses him.

“About what?”

Benoît gives him a come-on-it's-me-you-idiot look.

A shrug, and a weary smile. "Like I told the reporters, I'm through in three straight sets, I should be happy about that."

"And are you?"

Another shrug. Stan looks away, down at his phone. "I'm OK," he mumbles.

Not really answering the question. Fine. If their situations were reversed, Benoît wouldn't want his bad mood souring Stan's big day either. Besides, Benoît hasn't got the time or the mental space to get into it right now. Best just to keep things light, and not give Stan any time to mope.

"Hey, I brought some nice food back from the deli last night, some ham, some mozzarella... it's in the fridge if you want it."

"Thanks, that's great. I might have it for lunch later."

"You're not going to watch the match?" Benoît can't keep the disappointment from his voice.

Stan looks up again, and smiles, properly this time. "Of  _course_  I'm going to watch the match! You're in the round of sixteen. You could be in the quarter finals. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Benoît returns the smile. "Well... good. You coming down for breakfast?"

"Yeah, in a bit," Stan yawns, starting to get out of bed. "Need to have a shower first."

"OK, so I'll wait for you."

"You sure?"

"Of course. Be quick, though. No wanking."

Stan laughs, and Benoît flicks him with the damp towel as he heads to the bathroom. 

 

===================

 

During breakfast, Lionel rings to tell Benoît he has booked a car to take them to the grounds at 8.45am.

"But I don't have to be there 'til 10.15!"

"For practice, yes, but we have things to do first. Come on, you have ten minutes!"

Benoît was planning to go there with Stan, and now he probably won't see him until after the match. It doesn't really matter, of course, but he's a little rattled by the change of plan. They go back to their room together in silence, both distracted with their own thoughts, and Stan sits on the edge of the bed and fiddles with his phone while he waits for Benoît to finish getting ready.

"I might come with you, if that's OK?"

"Of course!"

"Only if there's enough room in the car..."

"We'll make room," Benoît grins. "You can sit on my lap."

Stan laughs. "I wouldn't risk it, not with your history of knee injuries."

"Your arse is not  _that_  heavy, Stanley. Although I  _would_  enjoy explaining to Lio how that injury happened..."

Finally, Benoît is ready to go. It feels like walking out for a final, somehow, even though it's only the fourth round. "OK," he says, sucking in a breath. "Let's go." He hauls his gear bags over his shoulder and heads for the door.

"Hang on," says Stan, stopping him before he opens it, "I'm not going to get another chance, so..." He leans up and kisses Benoît on the lips, then smiles, his hand resting on Benoît's shoulder. "Good luck. You can do it."

Benoît nods. His mouth has gone dry, and speech is suddenly beyond him. He squeezes Stan's hand for reassurance, perhaps a little tighter than necessary. Time to go.

 

===================

 

Benoît sits and waits with Jo, half-watching the doubles match before theirs on the big screen. They're only just through the first set, so Benoît reckons he still has an hour before he's on court, even it goes to a tiebreak. He'd rather watch Jeremy's match against Cilic, but it's probably not a good idea to get too invested in someone else's game just before he plays his own. He and Jo don’t talk, except the odd bland comment about the match they’re watching. Neither of them are really paying attention, of course; they’re lost in their own thoughts, thinking about the match they're about to play, and the others that might follow if they win.

Ten past twelve now. Benoît is not much of one for sitting and waiting for things to happen, which is kind of unfortunate for a professional tennis player. Half your life is spent kicking your heels in a locker room.

12.30, and Inglot & Lindstedt have won in two straight sets, so their match will be next on. Benoît gets up and does some stretches.

12.50, and the door to the locker room opens. They both stop and look up.

"Ten minutes, Mr Paire, Mr Tsonga."

Jo and Benoît exchange slightly nervous smiles, then repair to their respective lockers to get ready. 

Benoît takes a deep breath. OK, he can do this. He can.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Stan, of course.

There's no message, just a photo of Stan, sweaty from practice, grinning manically at the camera and doing a double thumbs-up. He must have got Magnus to take it. Benoît laughs out loud.

 _Ur an idiot but I love u_  he texts back, then turns off his phone and stows it safely away in the side pocket of his gear bag, still smiling.

Jo is up and doing some stretches too, psyching himself up for the match ahead.

Soon – too soon - the official is back. “Ready, gentlemen?”

Benoît picks up his bags and follows the official down the tunnel to the doors to the court, Jo behind him. The rumble of the crowd grows louder with every footstep.

They wait.

Finally, the official, on his walkie-talkie, turns and nods at them.

Benoît turns to smile at Jo. “Well… this is it, I guess.”

Jo returns the smile, and claps him on the shoulder. “Good luck, man,” he says, sincerely.

“You too.”

The doors open, and he walks out into the light, the low rumble of the crowd becoming a deafening roar.

 

===================

 

Benoît leans his forehead against the cool tile of the shower cubicle and lets the water wash over him. Flashes of the match keep coming back to him. He remembers that first set that seemed to go on forever, with neither player quite managing to get in the groove. He remembers getting frustrated at the idiot linesman and his terrible line calls, and smashing his racket, and arguing with the umpire, and kicking his kit bag, and swearing at himself. He remembers kicking the IBM serve speed recorder and getting a code violation, and arguing with the umpire about that too, because he could have just given him a warning, and now that's a two thousand Euro fine, and does the umpire know what you can  _buy_  with two thousand Euros? And he remembers not quite believing he was having an argument with the umpire over _money_ , right in the middle of the most important match of his career, yet somehow unable to stop.

He remembers the game that was lost entirely by his own errors, one after another. He remembers the crowd laughing at his frustration on one occasion, and booing on another. He remembers thinking, two sets to love down and 4-3 up in the third, that he was finally hitting his stride, and if he could just win this next game, maybe he could save the set, and make a comeback. He remembers that it felt like seconds later that Tsonga was 4-5 up and serving for the match, and making three errors in a row to basically hand it to him on a plate. All Jo needed was one ace down the line (he does  _not_  need reminding that it was an ace that won him the match against Nishikori), and that was it, all over.

He remembers the crowd's jeers ringing in his ears as he walked off court. He remembers repeatedly kicking a wall in the tunnel on the way back into the locker room and scaring the shit out of a couple of officials. And he remembers the strange moment in the middle of the match, when he went flying and just lay there, face down in the dirt in the middle of the court, wondering what would happen if he just didn't get up again. It must have only been for a few seconds, but it was long enough for him to hear the rumble of the crowd expressing their disapproval. Now he thinks he might as well have stayed there, lying in the dust, because even that would have been less of a humiliation than getting up and playing the actual fucking match.

Tears of frustration and self-loathing fall down his face, mingling with the water from the shower. He can do it here, these few minutes hiding from the world. He's come so far this year, everyone said he had finally grown up and got his head together and his tennis in gear, and now... all his hard work feels like it's for nothing. Jo didn't win the match, Benoît lost it. His big chance to be in the quarter finals at a slam, from starting the year outside of the top hundred, and he pissed it away. Confirming what everyone's always said about him, that he can't deal with the pressure, that when it comes to a really important match, he'll choke. Well, they were right, weren't they? That's exactly what he did. The biggest match of his career, on the biggest stage, and he fucked it up.

"Fuck!" he sobs, his hands bunching into fists.  _"Fuck!"_

The press conference is some special kind of torture. He doesn't have to put on a smile - no-one will be expecting that straight after a match like he's just had, but he does have to swallow his anger, apologise for his behaviour on court, act contrite, try and laugh it off, at least for the cameras. Even if inside he's screaming, even as every fibre of his being wants to jump up and kick over the table, and get the hell out of there. Nowhere would be far enough, though. He can't get away from himself.

Stan is waiting for him when he gets out of press. Benoît can barely look at him.

"I've still got physio," he says, abruptly. "I'll see you later, OK?"

Stan's a bit taken aback, he can tell. "Oh! OK. Yeah. Let me know when you're finished."

Benoît gives a stiff nod. He can't trust himself to speak.

Stan puts a sympathetic hand on Benoît's arm and lets it rest there a moment. He can't do anything more, here, surrounded by other people.

"I'm  _fine_ ," Benoît insists, choking up again, "You've got match prep to worry about, so – Yeah, anyway... bye.”

He wrenches his arm from Stan's grip and walks away.

 

==================

 

When Stan returns to their room a few hours later, Benoît is curled up in the foetal position on their bed.  He's still wearing his shoes; fell upon the bed when he got home and has barely moved since. The curtains have been half drawn against the glare of the afternoon sun.

Stan sits down beside him and carefully removes Benoît's shoes, then reaches out a tentative hand and touches his shoulder. Benoît flinches as though he's been electrocuted.

Silence.

“Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm just... not in the mood to be comforted.”

“OK,” says Stan, uncertainly. “What  _are_  you in the mood for?”

“Hitting things.”

“We could go back to the grounds, hit a few balls?”

Benoît lets out a snort. “I don't think they'd let me in.” He sighs. “I don't know. I just... I just need to  _do_  something, get all this tension out.” He turns to look at Stan. “Can I suck you off?”

Stan blinks. “You want to give me an angry blow-job?” he asks, mildly.

“ _No,”_ sighs Benoît, letting his head thump back into the pillow. “Sorry. It's a terrible idea. I don't know what... ignore me.”

“You can if you want,” Stan tells him, swinging his legs up onto the bed and lying down beside Benoît. “If you think it would help.”

Benoît gives a mirthless laugh. “Such noble self-sacrifice! No, I don't want to give you an angry blow-job. I want to curl up in a fucking ball and cry.”

Stan doesn't say anything for a few moments. “So do that, then.”

“I was  _joking_ ,” says Benoît, scornfully. “Sort of...”

“Hey,” says Stan, softly. “Turn around.”

“What?”

“Turn around.”

“Why?”

Stan doesn't answer, so Benoît complies, with a heavy sigh. Their eyes meet for a moment, then Stan wraps his arms around Benoît's shoulders and pulls him close.

“I know you don't want to hear it right now, but it's just one match. You've played brilliantly this year, Ben. You've worked so hard. It's only one match.”

“The biggest match of my career,” Benoît mumbles, into Stan's neck.

“And you got there from outside of the top hundred at the start of this year. You went from being ranked – what was it, 145? – in February to the fourth round of the US Open, in  _six months_. That's an incredible achievement. You beat the fourth ranked player in the  _world_.”

“Nobody will remember any of that,” Benoît says, miserably. “All those Challengers I played, in tiny little towns... they'll just remember that I couldn't do it on the big stage, when it actually mattered.”

Stan's sigh is almost as heavy as Benoît's own.

“That's tennis, though. You're only as good as your last match. I won fucking Roland-Garros three months ago, but nobody gives a shit; they just want to talk about  _fucking Kyrgios_ , and my lousy run of form since.”

“It's not been  _lousy_ ,” says Benoît, loyally.

“It's been lousy,” repeats Stan. “It's been  _really_  lousy this week.”

“It's not been that bad. You've  _won_ , haven't you?”

“So far,” says Stan, darkly.

“You don't think you can beat Young?” asks Benoît, lifting his head in surprise.

Stan shrugs. “I know I  _can_  beat him. I'm just not sure I'm  _going_  to. So, you know, don't book your flight home  _just_  yet. And I'm talking about myself, I'm sorry...”

Benoît manages a small smile. He leans up and kisses Stan on the nose. “ _New York, New York,”_ he sings, in English, “I _t's a wunnerful town...”_

Stan laughs, and shoves him in the chest.

“So...” Benoît says casually, “I'm a bit less angry now; are you still interested in that blow-job?”

Stan smiles. “I  _could_  be...”

“It would be my apology for being such a massive arsehole today.”

“Then you should maybe offer that umpire a little something too. At least a hand-job...”

Benoît laughs out loud, then groans, and buries his face in Stan's chest again. “What would I do without you?”

Stan kisses his hair, softly. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Nooo,” says Benoît, mournfully.

“Let's go out for dinner, then.”

Benoît shakes his head. “I can't.”

“Just somewhere near the hotel.”

“I don't want to see anyone.” He lifts his head again and looks at Stan, not quite in the eye. “I'm too ashamed.”

“Hey. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Did you  _watch_  the match?” Benoît snaps.

Stan just looks at him. Best not to rise to it when Benoît is spoiling for a fight like this. Stan knows how he's feeling only too well himself. It's not personal, and taking it personally will only lead to one or both of them saying things they'll regret.

“ _Ben,”_  he says, carefully, “You've had an amazing year. You started it outside the t-”

Benoît cuts him off. “Top one hundred, I know. I  _know._  That's what makes it worse. To have come so far, and then fucked it up so spectacularly. What are they saying about me on Twitter?”

“Well, mostly they're all excited because they think you're dating  _Shy'm_ ,” Stan tells him, a hint of exasperation in his voice. “I mean,  _seriously?_ What the  _fuck?_ ”

Benoît groans. “Oh, my god! She's a friend of a friend, that's all. She was in town to do some shows, and asked if she could get tickets for the tennis. I said she could sit in my box. Because, you know, no-one ever does, it's only ever fucking  _Lionel._  Sorry, Lionel.”

“Well, now everyone thinks she's your girlfriend.”

Benoît buries his face in Stan's chest again and pretends to sob into it. “OK,” he says, lifting his head. “So how about tomorrow, during your match, I sit in your box wearing a hot pink _Stan The Man_ t-shirt? That would certainly start some rumours.”

Stan looks unimpressed. Before he can tell Benoît what he thinks of his brilliant plan though, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and reads the message, raising his eyebrows at Benoît as if to say “What have you done now?”.

“What have I done now?” sighs Benoît.

“Edouard wants to know if you're OK,” Stan tells him, sternly. “Says you haven't replied to any of his messages.”

Benoît groans.

“Ring your friends!” Stan admonishes him. “There are a lot of people who care about you, you know.”

“I know, I know. I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologise to me; apologise to  _Ed_. He has a match tomorrow!”

Benoît reaches into his pocket for his own phone. “I'll text him.”

"Don't look at Twitter," Stan says quickly.

Benoît gives him an incredulous look. " _You're_  telling me not to look at Twitter?"

"Yes, I am, because I know what I'm talking about. It'll only make you feel worse."

Benoît groans. "That bad?"

"Well, it's  _Twitter._  You know what it's like."

Stan reaches over and plucks Benoît's phone from his hand, placing it on the table on the other side of the bed, out of reach. “Leave it off for a bit, eh? You can use my phone to text Ed.” He swings his legs off the bed and gets to his feet. “I'll order some dinner. Pizza and beer sound good?”

“Haven't you got a match tomorrow?”

“I meant for  _you._ ”

“In that case, make it a cheeseburger and fries. And swap the beer for a gin and tonic. I need to get drunk as quickly as possible. Make it a double _._  Make it  _two_. Oh, hell, just tell them to send up the whole bottle.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Stan smiles.

He picks up the phone to place the order, and Benoît rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. The anger has ebbed away now, to be replaced by a kind of hollow despair. There's a tight knot in his chest and an ominous pricking behind his eyes. Oh, god, it's all ruined. Everything he worked so hard for. He's let everyone down; Lionel, who always had faith in him, even when everyone said Benoît didn't have the right temperament to make it to the top; Stan, who put up with his black moods for  _months_  last year when Benoît couldn't play at all thanks to his bastard knee; Jo, to whom he owes a massive, grovelling apology; his poor long-suffering parents;  _himself,_  most of all. He blinks back hot tears.

“Stan,” he croaks, when Stan puts the phone down. “I – I think I'm in the mood to be comforted now.”

Stan's at his side immediately, pulling Benoît against him and stroking his hair. Benoît buries his face in Stan's shoulder. All he really wants to do is pull the covers over his head and hide from the world, but he'll wait until tomorrow, when he's alone. Until then, he will seek oblivion in gin, and the enveloping warmth of Stan's arms.

 

====================

 

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